Vita Mirabilis
by saffreth
Summary: Aka "A Wonderful Life." Canon. A sequel and companion to my previous works, "Perfectly Wonderful" and "Letters From Brancaster." This is a look at Edith and Bertie's first year of marriage, along with glimpses at the lives of their family and friends, including Mary, Tom, Rosamund, Carson, and more.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This is a sequel and companion to my stories "Perfectly Wonderful" and "Letters to Brancaster." I recommend you read at least the first one before this story. "Letters" will be incorporated or referenced within the text.

Edith and Bertie are the main characters and have POVs about every other chapter, or so. There are also POVs from nearly every major character in the series. Mostly fluff, with a little angst down the road, and should be suitable for teens.

This is a work in progress; I have about 10 chapters written, and have an outline for around 30. I will post on Tuesdays and Fridays. Please forgive any historical or grammatical errors.

And your reviews mean so much to me, I love reading all of them.

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE: Newlyweds**

 _January 1, 1926_

 _London, England_

Edith Pelham, nee Crawley, Marchioness of Hexham woke on the first morning of her marriage to find her husband gazing at her.

"Darling, whatever are you doing?" she asked sleepily, reaching over to caress his cheek. "What time is it?"

Bertie turned his head to kiss her palm. "It's seven o'clock, and I was watching my wife sleep."

"Can that be so interesting?" she asked.

"It is to me. It's a novel experience to see you wake up. I didn't want to miss it."

Edith laughed, and took in the sight of her new husband. His hair was mussed in an adorable fashion, and the sheet had slipped to show his muscled bare chest. He was naked — _she_ was still naked, too, from the evening before.

The memory made her blush. After Bertie's ardent declaration of love, they'd begun kissing, and their embraces quickly turned heated. A shiver ran through her at the memory of the whisper of his fingers against her neck as he'd unzipped her dress, and the intense look in his blue eyes as he'd removed the pins in her hair.

Their lovemaking had been very tender, with only a few awkward moments of knocked knees and bumped heads. They had many days ahead to learn how to love each other, and Edith suspected there was a deep reservoir of passion in Bertie that she could look forward to discovering.

As if he'd read her thoughts, Bertie leaned over to give her a long, lingering kiss. Her skin tingled as he pressed against her. "I also would like to experience what my wife looks like when I make love to her in the morning," he murmured, his lips moving down to her neck and collarbone.

Edith reveled in the thrilling sensations he was producing up and down her body. "My dear husband, did I not vow to honor and obey?"

* * *

 _January 5, 1926_

 _Paris, France_

Their journey was not arduous, and they arrived in Paris eager to begin their honeymoon. Bertie had arranged a suite at the new, very fashionable Hotel Le Bristol, and for the first several days, they walked along the Seine, visited museums and galleries, ate decadent dinners, and enjoyed each other's undiluted company.

On their fourth night, they went to a jazz club recommended by an Army friend of Bertie's, and it proved to be a most memorable evening.

It started when Edith emerged from her dressing closet in a gown that made Bertie's jaw go slack. "Well?" she said, striking a pose. "Will I do?"

The neckline of the beaded navy dress cut very deep, exposing Edith's creamy cleavage in a way that made his heart race. The back also swooped low, and he was already imagining running his fingers up her spine … pushing the straps off her shoulders … palming her pert breasts …

His throat went dry and his mind struggled to grasp at words. "You look incredible," he managed to choke out. "I shall have to fend off all the men of Paris tonight."

At dinner, he noticed how the waiters couldn't tear their eyes away from his wife — he could hardly blame them. At the jazz club, he saw every man eyeing Edith with a hungry gaze, and he wondered if he would be able to keep their hands off her.

He couldn't. After the third dance, a gentleman asked to cut in, and Edith gamely agreed. Bertie could only stand by and watch as they trotted around the dance floor. She was smiling and laughing, her eyes sparkling with delight.

Feeling sour, Bertie hovered on the edge until the song was done, then swooped in to take his wife in his arms again.

"Are you alright, darling?" Edith asked, her cheeks pink from exertion.

"Every man here wants to carry you off," Bertie grumbled.

Edith laughed. "I'm not the sort of woman that men pine for. That was always Mary, and Sybil when she was with us."

He shook his head. Edith still didn't see herself as the beautiful, captivating woman she was. In a way, that made her even more alluring to men. She wasn't an unapproachable ice queen like Mary; Edith was open and warm and inviting. Bertie sighed, and tried to rally himself into a better mood.

But the night only got worse, for him. More men asked Edith to dance, and she could not very well turn them all down. When the evening wound down, and they returned to the hotel, a black cloud hung over Bertie's head.

As they entered their room, Edith leveled a frown at him. "I'm sorry you didn't have a good time. I thought you were looking forward to going."

Bertie tried to rein in his pique. "I just did not enjoy the sight of other men with their hands all over my wife," he muttered, knowing full well he sounded like a whinging child.

Edith put her hands on his shoulders, looking up at him with a tender smile. "Jealous, darling?" she asked. "Think of this: They may have gotten to dance with me, but you're the only to take me home. You're the only one to take me to bed. I'm yours, 'til death do us part."

He pushed her against the door, his body covering hers, and Edith's eyes widened. "You are _mine_ ," he growled. And then he did what he'd wanted to do all night — tear off that godforsaken dress. In a moment, it lay in a pool of fabric at Edith's feet.

"I am yours," Edith agreed breathlessly, before his lips crashed down on hers.

* * *

Lord and Lady Hexham were strolling down the Champs de Elysee, when they encountered an acquaintance — the former Adela Graham. She curtsied properly, then introduced her new husband, Sir Randolph Palmer. The couple had just begun their own honeymoon.

"Lady Palmer was a cousin of Peter's, through his mother," Bertie explained to Edith.

Ah, she thought – the one Peter was to marry, though Edith didn't think it would've ever taken place, even had he lived.

Lady Palmer's cool blue eyes were surveying her quite critically. She was very beautiful, lithe and tall, with honey blonde hair curled underneath a fetching hat.

"Lady Hexham, I understand that you own a _magazine._ How very _unusual_ ," Lady Palmer declared rather haughtily, considering Edith outranked her now and before they were married.

Edith straightened and met her icy gaze. "Yes, I do. _The Sketch_. Have you read it?"

"I am afraid I do not have the time to read all the tittle-tattle in print these days."

At that, Bertie looked quite annoyed, and began to make their excuses. "Lovely to see you again, Lady Palmer. Sir Randolph," he said, touching his hat.

"I say, why not join us for dinner tonight?" blustered Sir Randolph, a rather stupid, but seemingly good-natured man. "We can dine at the Crillon. Come, join us! You must! Unless you have other plans."

Edith and Bertie looked at each other. They had no specific engagements to use as an excuse. With a barely perceptible sigh, Bertie agreed and they set the time for eight o'clock.

Later, as they dressed, Bertie grumbled about the invitation as Edith looked over her jewelry. She wanted to rub it in a bit, so she decided to wear the rather opulent emerald necklace and earring set Bertie had given her from the Hexham jewel collection.

At the Crillon, Sir Randolph and Lady Palmer awaited them at a table, a bottle of champagne already chilling in a bucket.

"A toast to newlyweds," Sir Randolph boomed, as they raised their glasses. "Isn't marriage grand?"

Edith didn't miss Lady Palmer eyeing her jewelry, nor the slight eye rolls she made when her husband chortled loudly enough to make other diners stare. Theirs was clearly not a love match.

"Lady Hexham, your sister is also lately married, is she not?" Lady Palmer asked, after placing her dinner order.

"She is, these past five months." Edith sipped delicately at her champagne. Bertie looked bored to death as Sir Randolph began talking to him of Parisian cigarettes.

Lady Palmer made a show of removing her gloves. "Lady Mary Crawley. Oh, but her married name is now Talbot. I understand her new husband owns a _shop_."

Edith silently ground her teeth, but smiled brilliantly. "Indeed. He was a racing driver, but he's retired to sell cars. We expect the business to be a phenomenal success, don't we, Bertie, _dearest_?"

Lady Palmer pursed her lips at this public display of intimacy.

"Indeed, we do, _my love_ ," Bertie replied. "One of his cars will be waiting for us when we return home to Brancaster Castle. I dare say Edith will take me on some _very_ interesting rides."

With that, Bertie winked at her and delivered a rather roguish grin, and Edith nearly giggled. Lady Palmer looked as though she'd sucked on a lemon.

That night, lying entangled in bed, after another rousing lovemaking session, Edith indulged her curiosity.

"When is the last time you saw Lady Palmer?"

"I believe it was September, at Peter's memorial service."

"I wonder that her family didn't try to keep the marriage arrangements, substituting you for Peter."

Bertie shrugged. "Come to think of it, she was _very_ friendly at the memorial, when she'd never given me the time of day before."

His forehead wrinkled at the memory. "Perhaps they did try to put her in my path. But my mind was too full of Peter's death, and my new duties, and most of all, you."

Edith could not let the statement go by without a deep kiss, and Bertie could not let her kiss go by without reciprocation, and some minutes passed before he spoke again.

"Being around her and all the other snobs who hardly tolerated Peter, or acknowledged me at all when I was just the agent, made me realize even more what I stood to lose in you," Bertie mused. "I determined to try to win you back, somehow. And then Mary telephoned."

Edith burrowed deeper into his embrace. "I suppose then we must be grateful to Lady Palmer, in a way."

"In a way. But not in every way," Bertie laughed, then kissed her in such a way that left no room for further conversation for some time.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO: A New Start**

 _January 8, 1926_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

"Who was it?" Lady Grantham asked as Mary entered the library for tea.

"Evelyn Napier. He's engaged to be married," she replied, pouring a cup for herself. By the fireplace, Henry was perched on the divan, with George on his lap.

"That was fast work," her husband remarked, bouncing his stepson, who was clutching a toy horse.

Mary smirked, knowing very well what he meant. Evelyn had always held a _tendre_ for her — she wouldn't say he had pined for her with a broken heart all these years, but it was no great surprise that now that she was remarried, he had finally settled down.

"How nice! Do you know her?" Cora asked.

"Who?" Lord Grantham asked as he came through the door.

Mary set to pouring a cup of tea for her father. "Evelyn Napier's fiancee, Lillian Westmoreland, and I do not, though Henry might."

Henry stood up, as George had gone racing for his grandfather's leg as soon as he'd come in. "I've met her once or twice. Lovely girl, little wisp of a thing, very gentle."

Again, they locked eyes, unspoken communication passing between them again. What he really meant was that she was mousy and boring, without an interesting thought in her pretty little head. Mary smiled into her teacup. Henry winked at her.

"Golly," Robert said. "That makes all of your former suitors wed or about to be. Isn't Charles Blake getting married next month?"

"Yes, we are going to their wedding. I met her last month in London – The Honourable Miss Alice Griffin. I liked her."

Henry snorted. "Her great similarity to you helped, I'm sure," he said, and she playfully swatted his arm.

Later that evening, after Anna had departed from their room, Henry had a little fun teasing his wife about her former suitors. "I do think it rather amusing that Blake is marrying the closest thing he could find to Lady Mary Crawley," he said, his green eyes alit with mischief. "Well, excepting perhaps Lady Gillingham, or the former Miss Mabel Lane-Fox."

"Don't be silly." But Mary couldn't resist feeling smug. It was true — Tony's wife was a clever, dark-haired, well-born firecracker with a sharp tongue, and Charles's wife was much the same.

As she rubbed lotion into her arms, Mary glanced at her husband, reposing on the bed with a book in his hands. She had learned he was a voracious reader, on topics ranging far and wide. At the moment, he was reading some novel called _The Great Gatsby_ , which had apparently been a dud in America, but Henry hadn't been able to put down.

There had been times, she had to admit, that she'd questioned her choice in marrying him. He had little ambition aside from selling his cars, yet he was kind and decent, and an excellent stepfather to George. In that regard, she could not have chosen better. And after all these months, he still set her heart racing, with just a rakish look at dinner or the touch of his hand on her hip as they were dancing.

More than that, there was the electric verbal repartee between them — his delight in her cutting asides, and her pleasure in his roguish remarks bordering on the inappropriate. They were equally matched in that.

"I don't mind if Charles Blake and Tony Gillingham have found inferior copies of Lady Mary Crawley — now Lady Mary _Talbot_ ," Henry continued, setting aside his book. He got up from the bed and moved toward the vanity, his tall frame towering over her. Mary felt magnetized by his lightning glance.

" _I've_ got the real thing," Henry said, pulling her up into a searing kiss.

"So do I. And I didn't even have to take you for a test drive," Mary replied, as they tumbled into bed.

* * *

Thomas Barrow eased into the chair behind the desk, feeling almost like a naughty child stealing into the kitchen cupboard.

This had been Mr. Carson's desk for over twenty years, and this room the domain of the butler of Downton Abbey. Thomas still couldn't believe that he now occupied it.

He ran his hands across the smooth grain of the desk, and squared the pen stand and telephone. How his life had changed in just a few short months! He had gone from unwanted and unnecessary, disliked and discarded, to — well, what exactly? Better off, at the least, and not just in position. Miss Baxter was genuinely pleased at his return. Apart from her worry over Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes also seemed rather glad. Daisy had even made his favorite dish for last night's supper. And good old Andy had shaken his hand heartily and wished him welcome home.

Yes, this was his home. These were his people, his family, more than the one he'd been born into. He saw that now, in a way he didn't when he had tried to take his own life. They had pulled him from the tub, staunched his bleeding wounds, cared for him, kept his secret, treated him not just with pity, but with genuine kindness — Miss Baxter and Mrs. Hughes and Anna. Even Carson and Bates had softened their usual scorn.

Now what? He was butler, and God willing, he would serve in that role until old age. But he yearned for more — if love was impossible, then friendship, true friendship, like he once had in Jimmy Kent.

A knock at the door interrupted his reverie. "Yes?" he called, smoothing his jacket and rising from the chair.

Miss Baxter peeked in. "Tea is served, Mr. Barrow," she said, in that quiet way of hers. "Shall I bring you a cup?"

"I think I'll join you," he replied with a smile, and they walked into the servants hall, where Anna had brought down Master Jack Bates.

The housemaids were cooing over him, and Mr. Bates was watching proudly. Thomas accepted a cup of tea and moved toward him. Bates looked rather surprised by his company, but not too displeased, and Thomas steeled himself. He had a second chance at life at Downton, and he was not going to throw it away by acting as bitterly and resentfully as he'd once done. He and Bates may never be friends, but out of gratitude to Anna, he could at least be civil.

"Master Jack looks well. He's already grown in the week since I saw him last," Thomas ventured, sipping his tea.

Bates raised his eyebrows, but only replied, "He has, at that. He's got a pair of lungs on him, though."

Thomas chuckled, which sent Bates's eyebrows even higher on his forehead. "We shall have to find some cotton to stuff your ears with then, Mr. Bates." He gave the valet a pleasant nod, and moved to sit by the fireplace. It wasn't much, he knew, but it was a start.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** I'm so grateful for all the kind and encouraging reviews. You inspire me! So, it seems I can't link out to "Letters From Brancaster," so I will have to include them in the text of this story.

* * *

 **CHAPTER THREE: A Question to Consider**

 _January 15, 1926_

 _London, England_

"You are positively glowing, my dear," Lady Rosamund Painswick declared, kissing Edith's cheek. "I must thank you, Bertie, for taking such excellent care of my niece."

Edith's very fashionable new evening gown, dark ivy green with gold beading, told Rosamund that her niece had enjoyed some shopping in Paris. Their blushes and sly glances at each other told her everything she needed to know about the state of their marriage.

"Who else is coming to dinner? I am terribly glad to see Rose before they sail," Edith said.

"Shrimpy will be here, and I invited your editor, Miss Edmunds," Rosamund replied.

"Oh! How wonderful! I was going to call on the magazine tomorrow. I don't think we were able to exchange more than a few words at the wedding."

Just then the door opened and the butler announced Tom Branson, and Edith exclaimed in delighted surprise.

"I'm here on business," Tom said, kissing her cheek and shaking Bertie's hand. "We need more inventory. I go back on the first train in the morning."

The other guests arrived — Atticus and Rose, Shrimpy, Miss Edmunds, and Sir Charles Trevor. As they went into dinner, Edith drew her aunt aside and whispered, "And who is this? A new beau?"

Rosamund shook her head and gently pushed Edith toward her seat. Luckily, for her, talk soon turned to Edith and Bertie's honeymoon, and Atticus and Rose's journey, and she had some time to consider the issue of Sir Charles.

They'd met a dinner party in December, just before Christmas, and then again at a concert two weeks ago, and he'd called on her last week. He was a widower of three years, and was acquainted with Shrimpy, which had given her an excuse to invite him tonight.

Sir Charles was an affable, placid man. After her brush with Lord Hepworth, Rosamund had done her due diligence and discovered that Sir Charles had quite enough money of his own, with small homes in London and Bath. His son worked for the government, and his daughter had married a shipping magnate.

Rosamund was not sure if he was paying her court, nor if she wanted him to. At her age, one did not have boyfriends. He was 65 if he was a day, but he was nice. And she was lonely, and getting lonelier. Both of her nieces were married now, busy with their own families. Maybe Sir Charles was the answer to the question that was her future.

" … I think Lady Rosamund has," Rose's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Didn't you meet Coco Chanel?"

Rosamund rustled herself back to attention. "Yes, I met her here in London, at a party given by the Duke of Westminster. She was very elegant."

"Oh, I would've loved to seen her boutique in Paris," Rose continued excitedly. "I'm dying to see the suit you got, Edith. Her clothes are so divine — so modern and fresh. She is a true visionary, I think."

Miss Edmunds laughed. "And she has done quite as much as anyone for the feminist cause, in helping to get rid of corsets."

"Oh, you should see what women in New York wear," Rose gushed. "I do love the boldness of Americans. There is so much more freedom and informality there. Many people don't even change for dinner."

Tom smirked. "Don't tell the Dowager. She'll scream bloody murder."

* * *

While Sir Charles and Shrimpy puffed on their cigars and spoke about politics, Tom and Atticus took turns gently teasing Bertie about his honeymoon.

"We enjoyed ourselves," Bertie said, ears turning bright pink.

Tom chuckled and decided to let up. "Edith seems happy, so I'm happy," he said. "And you'll spend the winter in Brancaster?"

"Most of it, though I imagine we'll pop back to London a few times, so Edith can check on the magazine and I can do my duty in Lords. And I want to oversee the sale of Hexham House, to help pay off the death tax," Bertie explained. "l am also selling the house in Brighton. The 3rd Marquess bought it in 1813 — he was part of the Prince Regent's set — and it's barely been used since by the family."

Tom raised his eyebrows. His time with the Crawleys had opened his eyes to quite a bit of splendor and wealth, but from what he'd read and heard whispered, Bertie was very rich indeed, with properties all over the country and abroad. That he had a house in Brighton that had been barely used spoke clearly of his fortune.

Despite all of that, though, Bertie had always treated him as an equal. Tom had liked him from the start, and had felt sorry for both of them that terrible day last summer at Downton. Still, all had turned out for the best, and he was glad. But part of him felt restless, too, because both Mary and Edith had moved on with their lives, and he had not. Perhaps it was time to consider it. He had to admit, he was intrigued by Miss Edmunds.

"You should set a meeting with the tax people, like we did," Tom suggested. "It was Mary's idea, and we were able to get better terms on paying the bill. It might be worth it."

Bertie tilted his head. "Hmm, I'll think about it, thank you," he said. "You know, I had also thought to get your advice on pigs. It might be too cold in Northumberland, but I would not mind diversifying our farm production, if it can be managed."

"I will send you some information," Tom promised. "But I warn you, raising pigs is no easy task."

"If Lady Mary can do it, I hope I can," Bertie said, and they all laughed.

* * *

 _January 17, 1926_

 _Brancaster Castle, Northumberland_

Edith cuddled Marigold close and kissed the top of her head. Breathing in the scent of her child made her feel so completely happy.

They had arrived at Brancaster much too late the previous day to do anything but peek in the night nursery, but now, Edith had some very important things to relate to her daughter. She hoped the three-year-old could understand it, or at least, enough.

Now that she and Bertie were married, they could officially take in Marigold as their ward — or as official as these things could be. She could take the Pelham name, and be introduced to the neighborhood as their adopted daughter.

Bertie was perched on the settee opposite them. He smiled encouragingly at her and Edith took in a deep breath. Why she felt so nervous, she had no idea.

"Darling," she said to Marigold, turning the little girl to look her in the eye. "You know that Mr. Pelham* and I got married. Now you are going to live with us here, and be our daughter. We will be your Mama and Papa."

Marigold's eyes grew round. "Mama and Papa are in heaven," she whispered.

Edith's heart constricted at hearing the lie she'd been forced to tell her daughter. "Yes, they are, but they are so happy that we are going to love you and take care of you from now on. I won't be your Aunt Edith any longer, but your Mama. Do you understand?"

Marigold looked at Bertie. "You're my Papa?"

He smiled gently at her. "Yes, darling. I hope that pleases you."

Marigold appeared to consider this information for a few long moments, and Edith exchanged a look with her husband. Was it too great of a change, just after moving her to another new home? But how she ached for her daughter to call her mother!

Finally, Marigold looked up at Edith. "Mama, can I have a pony? And a puppy like Donk's?"

At that, Bertie and Edith burst out laughing. She hugged Marigold tightly, and Bertie moved to enclose both of them in his arms. "Darling, you may have a pony and a puppy and any other animals you'd like," he answered, for Edith was too overwhelmed with emotion to speak.

Edith knew someday, when Marigold was older, they would tell her the truth, but for now, Miss Marigold Pelham was the happiest, most carefree little girl in the world. And for now, she was the happiest woman in the world.

( _*Footnote: Bertie was probably first introduced to Marigold as Mr. Pelham, and I imagined they would not want to confuse her with his new name_.)

* * *

January 19, 1926

 _To: Lady Rosamund Painswick_

 _35 Belgrave Square, London_

 _From: Edith Pelham, Marchioness of Hexham_

 _Brancaster Castle, Northumberland_

My dear aunt,

We are arrived safely and settling into Brancaster. Thank you again for the lovely dinner party you threw in our honor and to wish Rose and Atticus safe voyage. I hope very much that he will transfer back next year, as I would be delighted to meet little Victoria. It would be wonderful to have all the children to Brancaster for Christmas. I pray there will be a new Pelham to join in the fun.

The weather is frightfully cold. Bertie has told me amusing tales of snow fights he and Peter had as children, but there is only a light frost on the ground. The house is dreadfully drafty — there has not been a Lady Hexham hereabouts for more than 20 years, and it certainly shows. Bertie did what he could, but with Peter gone so much, it is all quite outdated, aside from Mother Margaret's apartment. I took a tour of the south wing rooms, and I dare say modernising them shall consume much of the spring and summer.

Bertie is very well. He dotes on me and Marigold, and my love for him grows daily. Hourly! He always makes time for us, though he has been busy since the instant we arrived back at Brancaster. Several of the cottages need repairs, and there are tenant vacancies to fill. He is selling the house in London and the house in Brighton, as we need the money for death duties, and likely one of the farms, which is more painful for him.

He won't take a dime from me from the magazine — he wants it all to be saved for Marigold, which is so kind. But I will use some of the profits to redo the rooms here. It is my home and hers now, after all.

How is London? Have you seen much of Sir Charles? You were very sly at dinner, I must say. I won't press you on it, but I will say he seemed a very nice man.

With love,

Edith


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR: Mad About You**

 _January 23, 1926_

 _Brancaster Castle, Northumberland_

"Good morning!" Edith declared cheerfully as she came into the breakfast room. Bertie stood to kiss his wife.

Margaret Pelham returned the greeting, though she raised an eyebrow at the kiss. In the days since her son and his wife had returned to Brancaster, she'd found they were quite … demonstrative in their affections.

She never would have thought her quiet, unassuming son to be such a romantic. But had he not kissed Edith soundly on the night of their engagement party — in front of herself and Lord and Lady Grantham, no less? Had she not espied them locked in an embrace, for anyone to see, in the far corner of the Downton library the day before Christmas?

And since their arrival, she'd witnessed dozens of little gestures — Bertie caressing Edith's back as they walked up the stairs, Edith throwing a flirtatious look at him over their teacups, Bertie winking at her in full view of the servants.

She also knew, from her maid's report of downstairs gossip, that they shared a room every night. His bed remained completely untouched.

Bertie was in love, and as a mother, she was delighted to see her son so content. Still, it wasn't proper for a marquess to be canoodling with his wife for all the world to see.

"What have you got to do today?" she asked Edith, who had decreed the first morning back that she would not breakfast in bed, as was her prerogative.

"I am paying a call at the hospital to meet the new doctor — Dr. Morris," Edith replied, buttering her toast. "And I still have some thank you notes to write from the wedding. I think I'm down to the last dozen. I'll be relieved when that task is complete!"

Margaret nodded. "And you, Bertie?"

"I am going to Brookfield Farm, to judge what state it's in," he replied. "I'm considering selling it."

She pursed her lips. "Is that wise? I thought the idea of breaking up the estate was abhorrent to you."

Bertie sighed. "It is, Mother, but this may be the only way to _save_ the estate. I do not want to deplete the coffers completely in paying the tax. Brookfield has been faring poorly for years now, and it might not make sense to try to turn it around. There is a wealthy manufacturer in Newcastle who wants to settle down in the country, but close enough to monitor his factories."

Margaret could see that Edith already knew this information, as she was gazing at Bertie in sympathy, but not surprise. She felt a little put out, not to be Bertie's first confidante any longer. It was right, she supposed, that it be his wife, but it still stung.

Edith glanced at her, and likely saw a slightly sour look on her face, for she said, "After my visit to the hospital, perhaps you could join me in the south wing, again, Mother Margaret? I had an idea for updating those guest rooms, and would like your advice."

Margaret nodded and resumed eating, feeling a slight mollified. And not for the first time, she was rather glad Bertie had married Edith. Some other woman would've looked down at her, for who was she but the daughter of minor gentry, the wife of a gentleman with little more than good connections to his name? No doubt The Honourable Miss Adela Graham, for one, would've chucked her out the instant the vows had been said.

Edith was kind, truly kind. Yes, she'd come into this marriage damaged goods, but Margaret could see how much she did for Bertie. Her son was different now — more assured, more confident, more resolute. It was what she had wanted for him all these years, wasn't it?

Perhaps she should thank her lucky stars for Edith.

* * *

 _January 29, 1926_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

"I'm going down to Yew Tree Farm, do you want to walk with me?" Andy asked as he came into the kitchen.

Daisy looked up from the potatoes she was peeling, and glanced at Mrs. Patmore, who was sitting at the desk examining receipts. "Can I, Mrs. Patmore?"

"Yes, go on with you," the cook said, with a wave of her hand. "Give my best to Mr. Mason. Be back by tea time."

Daisy grinned in delight, and removed her apron. "Let me fetch my coat!"

A few minutes later, they were walking down the lane that would lead them to the farm. When they were out of sight of the courtyard, Andy grabbed hold of her hand, and Daisy's heart gave a little flip.

They had been courting for less than a month, but Daisy thought she was already half in love. Andy was so sweet and gentle, so caring and kind. And he had such strong, muscled arms, and she wondered what it would feel like to be nestled in them against his bare chest. She blushed at the thought.

"Do you like living at the farm full-time now?" Andy said, pulling her closer to him.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Mason is so kind, and he's so encouraging about my education. Though living there means I see a little less of you," she replied shyly. She peeked up at him through her lashes to see that his cheeks had gone pink at her flirtatious remark.

He glanced around, and suddenly pulled her behind a large tree. "Then, we'll have to make up for that lost time," Andy murmured, before leaning down to brush his lips against hers.

Daisy felt herself going warm all over, and butterflies fluttered in her stomach. "Our first kiss," she breathed as they separated.

"First of many, I hope."

* * *

When Miss Baxter emerged into the sunlight from the post office, Mr. Molesley was waiting for her.

"Hello, Miss Baxter," he greeted, doffing his cap.

"Mr. Molesley! How nice to see you!" she cried, a smile lighting up her face. Indeed, when she smiled, happiness infused her entire being. She was an angel, and Joseph Molesley trembled to think he might have a chance with her. If he could persuade her to accept him, that is.

"How is life at the Abbey?" he asked, as they began walking that way.

"Everything has settled down from Lady Hexham's wedding. Mr. and Mrs. Bates' son is just darling, and I peek in the nursery when I can. Mr. Barrow is doing very well — he's quite a changed man, really," she reported. "How are things at the school?"

"Quite good, actually. Quite good." Joseph shifted his hat from hand to hand. How was it that he'd been thinking about this for weeks, and yet still couldn't bring himself to ask?

They stopped in the lane, just before the turn to the Abbey, and Phyllis looked at him questioningly. Now was the time, Joseph told himself, to be of good courage.

"Miss Baxter, I … I wanted to ask, that is, I hoped that you … " he stuttered, not able to meet her eye. "I hoped, that is, you would consider — if you are not of a mind to do it, I would understand, of course, and I hope we can remain friends — so please, do not let that be a factor in your decision, that is, I would not want that to be a burden on your mind …"

Phyllis laid a hand on his forearm, and Joseph nearly jumped. "Mr. Molesley, what is it that you're asking?"

He cleared his throat and took a deep, tremulous breath. "I'm asking … I'm asking to court you."

Her eyes grew very round, as did her mouth. "Oh!" she exclaimed, her hand flying to her chest. "Oh, my!"

Joseph shifted uncomfortably, uncertain what her response meant. "I think the world of you, Miss Baxter, I think you know that. You are kind and gentle and caring, even to those who spurn your efforts, like Mr. Barrow once did," he said. With a little more confidence, he added, "I think you're one of the bravest women I've ever met, and I am quite … quite mad about you."

At that, Phyllis's expression transitioned from one of surprise to one of heartfelt happiness. "Mr. Molesley — Joseph — you are a wonderful, wonderful man. I am honored to call you friend, and I would be honored to have you court me," she said.

Joseph broke into a grin, his heart thudding in his chest. He offered her his arm. "Then, Phyllis, may I walk you back to the Abbey?"

* * *

 _February 5, 1926_

 _To: Mr. Tom Branson_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

 _From: Bertie Pelham, Marquess of Hexham_

 _Brancaster Castle, Northumberland_

Tom,

I must thank you and Henry again for the car. It's a glorious machine — it handles superbly. Sometimes, I fear for Edith's life, she drives at such a clip along the drive.

I'm also grateful for the information you sent about the pigs. I am still uncertain if they will fare as well up here as they do in Yorkshire. We do terrific business in sheep and dairy, but perhaps we might try a small experiment with pigs this summer.

I took your — or shall I say, Mary's — suggestion to talk to the tax people. We worked out a better solution, but the bill is still enormously high. I am selling the house in London to an industrialist for a whopping sum. It's almost unbelievable, but I think he takes great delight in buying the house of a marquess. The solicitors think we shall fetch a very good price on the Brighton house, as well.

I've also decided to sell Brookfield Farm, one of the outlying properties, which was a harder decision. I don't want to break up the estate, but there isn't much choice. If I am to save Brancaster for future generations, it must be done.

We are all healthy and happy here, though the snow is falling thick and fast. My darling wife is already conquering this little kingdom. Or shall I say, queendom? The new doctor quite worships her, for taking an interest in the hospital, and she has won over all the ladies who have called on her. Marigold asks after Sybbie almost every day. I do hope you shall come up in the spring. I could use your advice on a few matters.

Tell me, how does business get on? Give Henry my regards and tell him to expect a letter from me soon.

Sincerely,

Bertie


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Here is a bonus chapter this week, since I feel good about making good progress on the story. Just a warning: It's looking more like 35 chapters or more.

Thank you again for all your kind reviews. I've rediscovered my love for writing through fanfiction, and your comments fuel my inspiration!

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIVE: Let It Snow**

 _February 10, 1926_

 _Brancaster Castle, Northumberland_

"My dear Lady Hexham, what are you doing out of bed?" drawled the lady in question's husband.

Edith looked over her shoulder to see Bertie sit up, his hair tousled so fetchingly. "I was stoking the fire, my dear Lord Hexham, and looking at the magical wonderland outside."

Beyond the window, Brancaster's rolling hills lay covered in a layer of the purest snow. The sun was just rising, casting sparkling rays across the horizon, over the white-dusted trees and the partially frozen, and past the barely visible smoking rooftops of the village.

Edith heard and felt her husband get out of bed and draw near, to envelop her in his arms. He bestowed a warm kiss on her neck, which made her shiver.

"A magical wonderland, for a fairy queen on her birthday," Bertie whispered in her ear before nibbling on the lobe. She sighed and leaned into him, as his hands roamed down her sides, up her stomach and breasts and neck, and into her hair. Edith turned in his arms and pulled his head down for a hard kiss.

As cold as it was outside, it soon became quite as warm in their bedroom. It was already a happy birthday, indeed.

* * *

"What do you say to taking Marigold outside to play in the snow?" Bertie asked, as they ate breakfast. They were all alone, his mother had gone to Kent to visit her sister.

Edith frowned. "Is it safe? I don't want her to catch a cold."

"She'll be fine. We'll bundle her up and be back within half an hour, I promise," Bertie reassured her. Turning to their butler, he said, "Mallon, will you send word to the nursery to have Nanny Carter dress Miss Pelham for a snow day?"

Bertie grinned at his wife, who still looked doubtful. Even Yorkshire did not get the snow they did here, but he was looking forward to showing her and their daughter the delights of snowball fights, making a snowman, and best of all, the hot chocolate they would drink after coming inside.

After breakfast, Marigold was brought down by her nurse, outfitted in many, many warm layers. The puppy she'd gotten for her birthday two weeks prior scrambled at their heels. "Papa!" she cried, running toward his waiting arms. "I want to play in the snow!"

"And so you shall, darling," he replied, sweeping her up, and pulling her knit hat down over her eyes. Marigold giggled, and Edith beamed at him, as they went out to the gardens.

Once she was set down, Marigold took off running, screaming in delight as she kicked up swirling white clouds. Bertie laughed — she was so precious to him already. He had not fathered her, but she was his daughter, in every other way that mattered. She had his name. She lived in his home, under his protection. Her coloring was even close to his.

And more than that, there was the complete trust she had in him, falling asleep on his lap as he read to her, or running to him when she'd fallen down and scraped her knee, or peppering him with so many questions, just like her beautiful mama.

He watched fondly as Marigold tried to scoop up armfuls of snow. They would have more children, he was sure, but Marigold would always have a special place in his heart, because he had _chosen_ to be her father.

A cold, wet clump hit him squarely in the back, and he turned to see Edith, laughing and backing away from him.

"Now, this is war!" he shouted, leaning down to form a snowball. "Time to rally against your mother, Marigold!"

* * *

That evening, Jessie was helping Edith affix a ruby-encrusted circlet in her hair when Bertie entered their bedroom with a grimace on his face.

"We should have sent our regrets. It is your birthday, after all," he complained, fussing with his tie. "The roads may be icy."

An amused smile tugging at her lips, Edith watched him in the mirror after dismissing the maid. Not a social butterfly by any means, Bertie preferred the comforts of home — sitting by the fireplace reading, or listening to a record or the wireless, with Edith firmly ensconced by his side. They would play cards, or he would continue to teach her billiards, or they would wander the gallery imagining the lives of all the ancient and long-gone Hexhams. They would look in on Marigold, sleeping soundly, sucking her thumb.

He was such a good father, she thought again, as she recalled their playful antics in the snow. Her hand drifted down to her abdomen for a moment. If only … well, there was time enough for that.

"Stop fidgeting, darling," Edith replied, dabbing perfume on her wrists and inner elbows, before slipping on her gloves. "Wilson won't let us slide off the road, and Lady Allendale promised there'd be dancing, and I want to dance with you on my birthday. And I'm looking forward to getting to know her better, too. I liked her when we met in London, and she wants to know more about my school idea."

When she rose from the vanity, Bertie came over to take her in his arms.

"But I would much rather stay here, and retire early, and celebrate your birthday _privately_ some more," he murmured before dropping a kiss on her shoulder. "You look stunning, by the way."

He had that particular expression that produced butterflies in her stomach, but Edith shook her head and pushed him away with a gentle smile. " _Later_ ," she teased. "Now, come, let us not be late to Bywell Hall."

* * *

 _February 14, 1926_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

Mrs. Carson was nearly done perusing the orders for the week when a knock came at the door. At her invitation, her husband came in, bearing a tea tray.

"This is a nice surprise!" she exclaimed, after he had kissed her on the cheek.

"I thought I might come take tea with my wife on Valentine's Day," Charlie replied with a smile, and began fixing their cups as Elsie put her papers away.

He'd become quite good at that, she thought. He'd gotten quite good at cooking dinner, too, a few times a month. She would've never dreamed that her husband could act the part of a thoroughly modern gentleman.

Not to say Charles Carson was turning liberal. Oh, no, he still believed in rules and order, precedence and the privileges of rank. But in private, Elsie had been delighted to find her husband to be more flexible than she'd imagined. Indeed, he'd proved _quite_ willing to do whatever it took to make her happy. After one or two tender recollections, she shook her head. Blushing like a girl at her age!

"I have had a letter," her husband said, sipping his tea. "From the Grand Hotel in York. It seems they wish to offer me a job."

Elsie sat back in wonder. "A job! At a hotel!"

"Yes, they would like me to train the waiters and other hotel staff in table etiquette and timing of service, how to properly address their patrons, and other finer points of hospitality," Charlie explained. He folded his hands over his stomach and appeared thoughtful, but hopeful.

"What about your work here?

Charlie shook his head. "It was kind of His Lordship to offer me a role, but the house has no more need for a senior butler than an underbutler. And while I have never been Mr. Barrow's champion, I do not think it right for me to hover over him now that he has risen to the position. I should not have wanted that for myself when I first made butler here."

"And what about your … your condition?" Elsie asked timidly. She hated to bring up the subject — he was so touchy about it — but it could not be helped.

"It should not be a concern," Charlie replied, his voice ringing with confidence. "I will not be serving tables or doing any of the work myself, merely advising and teaching."

He looked quite pleased with the idea, Elsie noted. His face was lighter, his shoulders less slumped. He desperately needed something to do, and she thanked the Lord that this offer had come. It could be the perfect solution to their dilemma.

"I think it a splendid notion," she said with a smile. "A very happy Valentine's Day, Charlie"

"Happy Valentine's Day, my love," Charlie replied, leaning over to give her a kiss.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX: Wedded Bliss**

 _February 20, 1926_

 _Belgrave Square, London, England_

The two couples greeted each other with all the warmth that can be mustered between sisters who had never been close and their husbands, who liked each other very much.

Henry and Mary, and Bertie and Edith, were all in London to attend Charles Blake's wedding to Alice Griffin. "I had no idea you knew Charles," Mary said to Bertie, after Henry had handed her a cocktail.

"We served in the Army together, for a time," Bertie answered after sipping from his own drink. "He wrote me a letter of congratulations after our wedding, and insisted I come to his. I think he would like nothing more than for me to discover a political bent, and promote his causes in the House of Lords."

Henry saw Mary's lips thin, as she turned to speak to Rosamund. She was happy in their marriage, he thought, but there was still a part of her that wanted to glitter alongside a great lord, and not a car salesman. And that part of her hated to be reminded that her sister's husband was a very wealthy marquess who could wield a good deal of influence and power if he wanted to.

Except Bertie didn't, which Henry liked about him. He was still the humble, self-effacing man he'd met at the fateful shooting party at Brancaster. Again, Henry marveled at the coincidence of it all — that both Mary and Edith had met the men they would marry on the same day, at the same place, in identical circumstances.

"How is business?" Bertie asked him quietly, apart from the others. Across the room, Sir Charles was coughing, as Lady Rosamund looked on in concern. Henry found him a tremendous bore.

"Very good, as a matter of fact. We can hardly keep the inventory on hand," he replied. "And people are clamoring for new models. They want this feature, or that. A better roof, or covered storage for their trunks, or more comfortable seats."

Bertie smiled. "All of those things sound good to me."

"Hmm, yes, it's just a matter of getting it done. How is Brancaster? Are you accustomed to always being on parade?"

"I don't know if I ever shall," Bertie sighed. "Managing the estate is work I was doing anyway. It's the dinners and balls and teas and luncheons that set my teeth on edge. God knows it will someday be warm cups of milk at three in the morning in our pajamas to say 'how do you do' to Lord and Lady Something or Other."

Henry chuckled. "I dare say Edith's got it all under control."

Bertie's gaze slid over to his wife, who was chatting away with her parents. "She is a marvel," he said softly, and for a moment, his expression melted into one of pure adoration. He quickly recovered, though, and clasped his hands behind his back.

"And aside from business, how do you find living at Downton? Mary hasn't put you to work yet? I fully expected you to be wrangling pigs or driving the tractor by now," Bertie said with a smirk.

Henry looked fondly at his wife, who seemed to sense his eyes on her, for she arched a delicate eyebrow at him. A zip of sensation ran through him. "Oh, I don't mind when she cracks the whip," he murmured. "Not at all."

* * *

The wedding reception was well-attended by London's elite society — between them, Mr. and Mrs. Blake were seemingly connected to half the country. Even the Prince of Wales had come, accompanied by Mrs. Freda Dudley Ward.

Mary was glad to see Tony and Mabel, who revealed she was expecting, too, and said hello to Evelyn and his fiancee. But of all her former suitors, she had not expected to run into Sir Richard Carlisle.

"Why, _Lady_ Mary, it's been quite some time," he intoned, drawing out each syllable like an insult, his icy eyes boring a hole into her.

He'd always had the capacity to fluster her. Mary leveled what she hoped seemed like a nonchalant smile at him. "Sir Richard. It's been ages. Do introduce me to your wife."

The woman on his arm was almost terrifyingly beautiful, with pale blonde hair cut into a sleek, modern bob. Large sapphire eyes, rimmed with thick lashes and pencil, dominated her face. She looked like a movie star. And her voluptuous figure was outfitted in the latest, most expensive fashion — it was as if she'd just stepped out of a Parisian couturier that morning. Pearls and diamonds dripped from her ears and neck. For the first time in her life, Mary felt like a shadow. She felt like Edith.

Sir Richard introduced Lady Carlisle, formerly Miss Mary Russell-Lyon — she flinched at the name.

"And your husband? Is he here? The _driver_?" Sir Richard sneered, a gleam in his eyes that Mary knew all too well.

"Mr. Talbot is fetching me a shawl, and he isn't a driver anymore," Mary snapped, quelling a wave of indignation. That she'd ever thought to marry this odious, smarmy man made her feel sick.

Oh, he'd been clever enough to match her barb for barb, and rich as Croesus, and he had saved her from scandal and ruin. But he'd done it not out of real kindness or love — no matter what he claimed. He'd done it to control her, to have power over her, to _own_ her. She was an object to be purchased, just like everything else in his life. But Mary had wanted more than that — she'd wanted love, with Matthew.

And now? She was still the romantic, it seemed.

Just then, Henry appeared with her wrap, and placed it around her shoulders. "Are you alright, darling?" he asked, glancing at Sir Richard and his wife.

"Yes, perfectly," Mary replied in a composed voice, but she gave him a look he would understand to mean _it was not alright_. "This is Sir Richard Carlisle, and his wife, Lady Carlisle."

Henry straightened. Yes, he'd gotten the message, and Mary was relieved. "Ah, yes, the newspaper hawker," he drawled, his tone careless, but his green eyes sharp. "Are you here to gather stories for the gossip column? Who had too much punch, and who caught the bouquet?"

Sir Richard pressed his lips together, his face turning to stone. It was the very look he'd always had before bringing thunder down on someone's head. But Henry only looked Lady Carlisle up and down appraisingly, and then continued, with mischief in his eyes.

"And no doubt your readers will be _breathless_ to know how many canapes were served. I dare say it's over 30 — what do you think, Lady Carlisle?"

She tittered and batted her eyelashes like a schoolgirl. Henry's dashing good looks had many benefits, thought Mary.

"More like 40, and _Lord_ , I think I ate every single one! The shrimp toast was _very_ good, we had some just like it at Lady Ancaster's ball last month. Were you there? Oh, no, I suppose we would have seen you. Heavenly! _Utterly_ heavenly! Oh, and the caviar is quite divine, too, don't you think? Richie, we must get some for our next party – _heaps_ and _heaps_ of it. I think I should like to bathe in it!"

Loud squeals erupted from Lady Carlisle, and wedding guests near them turned their heads to see where the noise had come from. Mary saw Henry smirk and Sir Richard roll his eyes. "My dear," he told his wife through gritted teeth. "Let us go pay our respects to Lord and Lady Guilford."

As they left, Henry leaned in to whisper in her ear, mirth dancing in his eyes. "So, not all of your paramours succeeded in finding a Mary replica, it seems. Poor _Richie_.

She dissolved into quiet laughter. "Poor Richie indeed."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** Thanks again for all the lovely reviews! They really give me a boost to keep writing and make progress!

* * *

 **CHAPTER SEVEN: A Story Begun**

 _February 24, 1926_

 _London, England_

Edith inspected the finished magazine pages with satisfaction, and handed them back to Laura.

"Your column about the proposed Legitimacy Act should set some people's hair on fire," the editor remarked. "It's a worthy cause to champion, even though the law is only a first step."

She delivered a meaningful look at Edith, who busied herself in pouring more coffee to hide her flustered reaction. Laura was very clever — between things Edith had said and her interest in this law, shed had probably put two and two together to add up to Marigold. But even if she had guessed, Edith didn't think Laura would judge her — or reveal it to anyone else.

To her relief, Laura tactfully changed the subject.

"I also think this article about the BBC's future will be a big hit. Everyone's going mad for the radio plays."

"It will terrify my grandmother, I'm sure! The wireless is still anathema to her," Edith replied with a laugh. "Who's the writer?"

"His name is John Archer, and he came into the office last week. He is _very_ dashing, _very_ charming — a bit of a rake, really. Audrey nearly swooned." The women giggled.

Laura removed her glasses and lit a cigarette. "How was the wedding? From the papers, it appeared to be quite the glittering affair!"

"Oh yes, the _creme de la creme_ of society was there," she said with a slight eye roll. "I shall be glad when I am back at Brancaster."

"When do you go?"

"Day after next," Edith replied, then brightened. "We are hosting a cocktail party at the flat tonight, you must come! It's nothing grand, just a few friends. Please say you'll come."

Laura ducked her head, looking as though she was going to turn down the invitation. Edith sensed that the editor was still a little uncomfortable socializing among lords and ladies. Laura was a thoroughly modern woman — she'd once proclaimed that she felt no great desire to get married. She had her career, and that was enough.

"I won't take no for an answer," Edith added firmly, then to make sure there could be no argument, added, "I am your boss, after all."

Laura sighed, but with a smile. "I'd be delighted."

* * *

 _And this is the flat Michael Gregson left Edith … amazing_ , thought Tom Branson, as he examined the room's book collection.

He wasn't quite sure what he was doing in London, other than being asked by Henry to look at a few cars. Tom had thought they'd inspect them together, but Henry had clapped his shoulder and shrugged. "The missus decrees we must go," he'd said, in that Henry-ish way of his. "Do meet with Mr. Sterling, and look at designs, too, while you're here." Just like Henry to call him to London, and then leave him to his own devices.

His eye was caught by a flash of silver and the gleam of blonde hair. Miss Laura Edmunds was shrugging off her coat and greeting Edith and Bertie, her wide smile topped by sparkling eyes. She was clad in a most fetching cream dress, accented with silver fringe.

He polished off the remains of his cocktail and took a deep breath. Miss Edmunds was beautiful and interesting. Oh, he'd been attracted to other women since Sybil's death — Miss Bunting for one, even Edna at first. But Laura was the first that felt … well, like it could be a serious interest.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to pursue her, nor if she ever even thought about him. But there was no harm in talking to her at a party, was there?

"Hello, Miss Edmunds. You look very nice this evening," Tom greeted her. A waiter passed by, and they both accepted cocktails.

"Good evening, Mr. Branson, and thank you," Laura replied, then smiled merrily. "I hope I can get a tour of the place later. From the little I've seen, it's incredibly chic."

Tom grinned in return. It was impossible not to — her warmth was infectious. "I was just thinking that myself."

"How are you and Mr. Talbot getting along with the business?"

"Splendidly. Henry is a born salesman," Tom replied, with a smirk. "How is the magazine?"

"Oh, you know, late nights, squabbling with authors, pleading with the printer," she laughed. "I love it, though. It's worth all the tears, sweat, and backaches when we find truly interesting stories."

"Unearthed any good ones lately?"

Laura's eyes lit up even more, and Tom found himself transfixed by the sight. "Oh yes, we are commissioning an article about the plight of the miners, from the point of view of their wives. Their wages are shockingly low — hardly enough to live on, and the work is dwindling every year. It's terrible, really."

As she continued talking in a most animated fashion, Tom felt himself being drawn in by her enthusiasm. Something stirred deep inside him … something he hadn't felt in a very long time — passion.

* * *

The morning after the party, Bertie was leaving his solicitor's office, when he heard someone call his name — it was Evelyn Napier.

"Hello, Bertie, I'm glad to run into you like this. I had hoped we'd have a chance to talk more at Blake's wedding, but it was such a crush," Evelyn said, as they shook hands.

"It's a good thing you caught me now," Bertie replied in a friendly manner. He didn't know the other man very well, but his wife, Mary, and Henry all thought the world of him. "We are leaving tomorrow for Brancaster."

"Ah, luck is on my side, then." Evelyn cleared his throat and looked uncertain. "I wanted to discuss something with you — I know you are not overly political, but I thought I would take the chance to ask if you are interested in joining a commission we are forming on the issue of preservation of rural areas. As the caretaker of such a large estate, and with your position, you would have a lot to offer."

Bertie sighed, and shook his head. "I have heard of the debate that's brewing, but I can't say I have a strong opinion either way. I am not against development, but I also don't think we should tear up the countryside. As I told Charles, I will champion issues, when I feel passionately about them, but this is not one, so I am afraid I must decline."

Evelyn shrugged. "I thought as much. It hasn't been easy finding someone with the right background to join the commission."

An idea came to Bertie. Just the other night, he had overheard Mary lamenting to Lady Rosamund about Lord Grantham — "he really needs _something_ to do, which won't give him too much stress."

"Perhaps you might consider my father-in-law. I'm sure he's well-versed in the arguments at hand, and as a major landowner and an earl, he would have the standing you're looking for," Bertie suggested, and Evelyn looked thoughtful.

"Hmm, I believe that proposal might be quite acceptable to my bosses. I will put it to them." And with that, the two men bid each other farewell.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** I'm so grateful for the encouragement about incorporating historical events/facts. I did as much research as I could; I know it's not perfect, though, so please forgive any mistakes or errors in the timeline!

* * *

 **CHAPTER EIGHT: Imagine That**

 _March 3, 1926_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

Anna smoothed the hair underneath the gold silk band circling Lady Mary's head. "There," she said. "That looks nice, I think."

Mary turned her head side to side, and smiled. "I'm glad I ran into York to get that trim, the back was looking ghastly! It wouldn't do to shock my grandmother tonight."

Anna smiled and handed Mary her gloves. "Her Ladyship hasn't been here in some time," she noted.

Mary stood, inspecting her appearance in the full-length mirror. She frowned a little as she smoothed the dress over her swollen belly. "Oh, she had a little cold, nothing to worry about — though I suppose at her age, every sniffle is something to worry about," she said. "She'll be back in fighting form in no time, especially since Lady Merton is coming to dine. I'm sure there's some hullabaloo they can argue about, and that'll set my grandmother to rights."

Anna suppressed a giggle. Sometimes, she wished she could witness the battles between the Dowager and Lady Merton. Then again, perhaps she was lucky to escape them.

"Now, off with you. Take Jack home early tonight," Mary decreed. "I can prepare myself for bed. Mr. Talbot can help."

Anna shook her head in amusement. Lady Mary did delight in trying to shock her. She wasn't going to argue, though. With a spring in her step, she put away Mary's day clothes, and made her way to the nursery.

Jack had just been fed, and was falling asleep as Anna scooped him up. She bid the nanny goodbye, and was making her way to the back stairs when she came across her husband.

"Are you off the hook early?" John asked, after tenderly stroking his son's cheek. "His Lordship told me to go home, too." They exchanged gleeful grins and headed downstairs.

At their cottage, Jack continued to sleep — to his parents' utter relief — while John lit the lamps and Anna put on the kettle for tea.

"I've had replies to the inquiries I sent out on those properties," John said, taking his steaming cup from her. "We should go look at them on our next day off. Who knows, perhaps by the end of the year we can open our own guest house, like Mrs. Patmore."

Anna gave him a cheeky look. "With the two of us as owners, no doubt it would soon outdo hers in being known as a house of ill repute!"

John laughed and drew her onto his lap. "I wouldn't mind if our house right now was one of ill repute," he murmured, before pulling her into a lingering kiss.

Her fingers began working at his tie, as he began pulling pins out of her hair. "Oh, Mr. Bates, I think we can do something about _that_."

Their tea was left to go cold.

* * *

Robert re-read the letter, and was still trying to process its surprising contents when his wife and daughter entered the library for tea.

"What is it?" Cora asked, nodding to the paper in his hand.

"A letter — from Evelyn Napier, of all people," he answered.

"Evelyn!" Mary exclaimed, furrowing her brow. "To _you_? What about?"

"He's asked me to join the rural preservation commission, to discuss potential guidelines about building in the countryside. I gather it was Bertie's idea that I be included."

The children bounded into the room, and for a few moments, all attention was taken up by their chatter and antics.

"Will you do it?" Cora asked while helping Sybbie button a dress on one of her dolls. "Is it a good idea? I don't want you bursting another ulcer." Her big, blue eyes blinked at him in concern.

Robert tossed his head, annoyed that his wife had brought up his health again. He was not an invalid! Yet, Mary and Tom still treated him like one, only going through the bare motions of including him in estate decisions. He was quite recovered, and frankly, bored. His daughter and son-in-law now did the bulk of the work of running Downton, and his wife spent a great deal of time at the hospital or in meetings in York. Robert felt useless, like a machine no longer used in favor of a newer model.

He needed to find something to do, and this could be the answer. He had never been political — that had been Shrimpy's domain, though Shrimpy's influence had gone down with his marriage — but this was an issue of real interest to him. He might actually do some good, and that thought was very satisfying.

"I'm fine, and not old enough to be put on the shelf, Cora," Robert said. "I'm going to tell Napier yes."

Cora just sighed a little in acceptance, while Mary smiled broadly. "Good for you, Papa," she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Now just be sure to make the _right_ decisions."

* * *

 _March 5, 1926_

 _London, England_

Rosamund tried to hide a yawn, as she pretended to listen to a conversation between Sir Charles and Mr. Eccles about … well, she didn't know what it was about. Something to do with yachts.

With a polite smile, she excused herself to get another glass of wine. Rosamund took her time serving herself, not wanting to go back to her companion so soon.

She felt bad for avoiding Sir Charles. He was very nice. But he was not _interesting_. His conversation was bland, his tastes were bland, his interests were bland. In a way, she felt fortunate that he had been ill so much these last few weeks. He'd had a cold, and then another one, and then something he ate hadn't agreed with him.

"You look bored," breathed a low voice disconcertingly close to her ear.

She whirled around to discover who had invaded her space, and found it was a man whose name she'd forgotten. Rosamund raised an eyebrow.

"I'd be bored too if I had to listen to that stuffy fuddy-duddy you came with," the man said, in an American accent. "It's Lady Painswick, right?"

"Lady Rosamund. And who are you?" she asked.

"The name's John Archer." He delivered a rather insouciant bow. It was then she noticed how handsome he was — more than handsome. He appeared to be in his late 40s, and had dark hair that fell in waves, longer than was fashionable, and deep green eyes. He hadn't shaved, and sported a heavy stubble. He looked like a pirate.

"Oh yes, the writer" — she remembered their brief introduction before dinner — "I read your article in _The Sketch_. My niece owns the magazine."

"Ah, the apparently brilliant Lady Edith. I didn't get to meet her unfortunately," he said with a shrug. "I'm not a journalist full-time, I just do it to pay the bills."

"It's Lady Hexham now. So, what is your true calling, Mr. Archer?" Rosamund inquired, feeling her knees go alarmingly weak when he grinned at her.

"Call me John, and I'm a novelist! But I haven't published a book in a few years. That's why I'm here — I'm trying to see if some time in Europe can get rid of this writer's block."

Rosamund nodded. "Are you hoping that ancient temples and grand palaces and lanes trodden for a thousand years will inspire you?"

John barked in amusement. "More like drinking a lot of whisky and meeting sordid characters in dark alleyways," he said. He leaned in, and his eyes raked over her, as if undressing her in his mind. "And maybe meeting a beautiful muse to fire up the, ah … _imagination_."

Heat rushed to her cheeks, and Rosamund heard Sir Charles call her name. "Good luck with that, Mr. Archer."

But even as she walked away, she could still feel his gaze on her back. Rosamund had to admit it was a thrilling feeling.


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE: A Friend in the Making**

 _March 8, 1926_

 _Brancaster Castle, Northumberland_

Bertie gazed over the freshly-tilled field, breathing in the mingled scents of earth, grass, and heather. He nodded at the man next to him.

"You've accomplished quite a lot, in a short amount of time," he told Mr. Smith, and they turned to walk back to the farmhouse. "Barley has always done well here at Greenwell. What shall you plant in the lower field?"

"Beets, milord," Smith replied. "And squash on the south side."

"Excellent. Sounds like a solid plan. And you feel confident about managing the pigs when they arrive in a few weeks?" Bertie tried not to look anxious, but Brancaster's continued success depended on diversifying, adapting, and modernising their farm production.

"Aye, milord. I raised prize winners in Durham and should be no different here," Smith said with a touch of pride.

The farmer invited Bertie in for tea, but he had to refuse in order to return and prepare for a dinner party at Eslington Park that evening.

As Bertie walked up the lane, hands clasped behind his back, he reviewed the list of tasks he kept in his head. Today had been just the first of many calls on the tenants — tomorrow, he would meet with Mr. Cartwright, the new tenant at Holly Grange, and the other farmers in the days to follow. He must review the estimates on farm repairs, write to the London solicitor about renewing the milk supply contract, and look into an inquiry about building homes on the southern edge of the estate.

So wrapped up was he in his thoughts that he hardly noticed reaching the house, or sequestering himself in his office, or his wife's entrance into that room. When Edith placed her hands on his shoulders, Bertie nearly jumped out of his skin.

"I'm sorry. I was a million miles away," he said with a shake of his head. He brought her hand up to his lips for a kiss. "Did you need me? I suppose we ought to go up to change soon."

"We have some time. How did it go at Greenwell Farm?" Edith's soft fingers pushed an errant strand of his hair back into place.

"Smith seems to have everything under control," he replied. "Really, we're lucky to have gotten him. He did very well at Everingham."*

"Before the Crawfords sold it! He was out when I called on Mrs. Smith last week, but she seems a very sensible sort," Edith mused. "Her little girl is just a year older than Marigold."

"How was your day?" he asked.

"Oh, Mr. Lowry came to see me about the church bazaar. I don't know why we need to start talking about it now, it's not for ages, but he's so particular. And there's a hospital board meeting tomorrow — Dr. Morris is adamant that we need a new X-ray machine," Edith sighed.

Bertie drew her closer. His wife was looking particularly lovely today, clad in a rose day dress that set off her hair and highlighted her creamy complexion. "I've missed you. I feel as though we've hardly seen each other this last week."

She frowned in concern. "Bertie, perhaps you should reconsider hiring an agent. You will work yourself to death this way."

"Perhaps," he sighed. "I just want to make sure to do right by the people on the estate, our tenants and servants, and those that depend on our patronage. I feel an obligation to see it all done, and done well, myself."

She smiled at him tenderly. "You're doing a marvelous job already, and requiring help is not a failure on your part. In the Army, you could not fight a battle all on your own, you commanded soldiers. Part of being a leader is delegating, dearest."

Bertie pulled her on his lap. God, he loved this woman. "Sensible as always, darling. I promise to think about it."

They kissed, but when Edith tried to move away, Bertie tightened his hold. The feel of her shapely bottom on his thigh was stirring his desire. He ran his hand up her back, to the nape of her neck.

"Bertie! We'll scandalise the servants!" Edith whispered, but her dancing eyes told him she was enjoying his attentions.

"Hang the servants! If they want to gossip about how much I love my wife, let them."

* * *

"Stop it," Edith mouthed at Bertie, who had just raised his eyebrow flirtatiously at her again. He'd been giving her little looks all evening, even while conversing with the other guests at Eslington Park. Now, he glanced meaningfully at the clock, and she blushed remembering his earlier words, spoken _sotto voce_ when the men had rejoined the ladies in the drawing room — " _I'm counting the minutes until I can take you to bed_."

"You and Lord Hexham make a darling couple," said Lady Ravensworth, amusement dancing in her dark brown eyes. "You can hardly keep your eyes off each other."

Edith blushed again. "I'm so sorry, I've been terribly rude."

"Not at all. I remember the first few months of my marriage. It's nice to see people who are so clearly in love."

Edith firmly set her attention on the other woman. "How long have you and Lord Ravensworth been married?"

"Oh, seven years now. We've known each other all our lives, though. We got engaged before the war, but waited to marry until it was over. Our fathers were political allies, as were our grandfathers before them," she said. "I gather Lord Hexham isn't one for politics. We didn't hear of you being in London much this season."

Edith shook her head. "No, he is not, though that isn't to say he won't be in the future. It'll be hard to avoid. He is passionate about certain issues, and he's very supportive of my causes."

Lady Ravensworth smiled. "I've enjoyed your columns in your magazine. I'm an avid reader," she explained, and added, quite mischievously, "Arthur, too, though he'd never admit it."

"Oh!" Edith ducked her head. "Thank you. I'm honored."

"So, what are your causes, if I may ask?"

"Well, I had an idea to open a college for young women here in Northumberland."

Lady Ravensworth's angular face lit up in delight. "How marvelous! I am a proponent of women's education myself. How far along are you in the planning?"

"Oh, not far at all, Lady Ravensworth. I need more supporters, and then work on securing donors. We'll need a board of trustees, find a president — it's going to be quite a lot."

"Do call me Emma, and if you need a supporter, you can count on me. We should get Caroline involved, too — that is, Lady Allendale. I believe you've met."

"You must call me Edith, then. And yes, she had us for dinner at Bywell Hall last month, and I told her about my idea. She seemed quite interested."

Emma nodded, an expression of fond amusement crossing her face. "Oh yes, if you want to talk causes, Caroline is certainly your woman. She vows to run for Parliament, and I dare say she'll make it happen. She is my second cousin, in fact, and for some years, we grew up in the same house – her mother died when she was just a little girl. You'll find Northumberland families are quite tight-knit. I have no doubt yours will become part of the fold in no time."

Edith felt very pleased at the rapport she felt with Emma. It would be nice to make friends with a woman close to home, and support each other in a way that she and Mary never had at Downton.

Just then, Bertie's tall frame loomed over them. "I've come to fetch my wife, Lady Ravensworth," he said with a little bow. "Thank you so much for a lovely evening, but it's time to go home."

He raised his eyebrow at Edith, and she knew the rest of that sentence was " _... and to bed_."

She blushed, and Emma chuckled softly. "Off with you then." Emma then gave her a little wink, and Edith laughed. A new friend was a lovely thing.

* * *

*Everingham: A fictional estate mentioned in Jane Austen's "Mansfield Park," owned by Henry Crawford.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:** The writing is going a little slower than I'd hoped, but I'm determined to keep up the pace of two chapters a week. Your reviews continue to encourage me, so please drop a line!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TEN: A Kinder Place**

 _March 13, 1926_

 _York, England_

Henry was just departing the shop when he heard his name hailed. He turned to see his old friend, Frank Hamilton, striding down the sidewalk.

"Frank! It's jolly good to see you!" Henry exclaimed as the two men shook hands heartily.

"I heard about your shop, and I'm in York on business, and thought we might catch up."

"Do you want to come in? Are you looking to purchase a car?"

Frank shook his head, smiling. "No, though if I do, you'll be the first person I call. Do you want to grab a pint? There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

Henry agreed, and they set off for a nearby pub. He glanced at his friend — they'd served in the Army together during the war, but hadn't kept in steady contact over the last few years. Frank was tall, lean, with a head full of sandy blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. All the girls had swooned over him, which had irritated Henry a little, since he'd always been used to being the focus of feminine attention.

They reached the pub, paid for drinks, and sat in a booth across from each other. Frank raised his glass. "I saw in the paper that you are married, congratulations. And an earl's daughter! Good for you."

Henry smiled and raised his glass. "My wife is an amazing woman, and her rank is the least of it. Beautiful, smart, savvy — I don't know what she sees in me!" he chuckled. Proudly, he added, "We are expecting a young Talbot in a couple months."

"More congratulations, then." This time, they clinked their glasses.

"What about you? No wife and kids?"

Frank shook his head, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "No. I've been traveling a great deal these last few years — Italy, Greece. Spent some time in Tangiers."

"Tangiers!" Henry exclaimed in surprise. "My brother-in-law's cousin lived there, until he died last year."

A strange look came over Frank's face. "Do you mean Peter Hexham? He was your brother-in-law's cousin! What an extraordinary connection."

Henry frowned slightly, uncertain why Frank suddenly appeared so discomfited. He'd gone pale and was gripping his mug of ale. "You knew the late Lord Hexham?"

"A little," Frank muttered, taking a long swig of his drink.

Suddenly, the pieces fell into place in Henry's mind. He'd heard hints and tidbits from Bertie about his cousin and his activities in Tangiers. Peter Hexham had been a "delicate" creature, more "arty than sporty." Frank's odd behavior indicated that he'd also enjoyed those same activities in that locale, perhaps even in concert with Peter.

Henry shrugged to himself. He was a man of the world, and liberal in his opinions. Frank's proclivities mattered not at all to him.

"What is it you wanted to discuss, Frank?" Henry asked, a little gently.

Frank cleared his throat and roused himself. "Yes, right. Now that I'm back in England for good, I've found myself yearning to enter the political fray. I'm standing in the election for North Yorkshire."

Henry raised his eyebrows. "That's … that's great, Frank. I wish you luck."

"I hope you will do more than that. I'd like to get your support. Will you join my campaign?"

"Oh, I don't know," he demurred.

"I could really use you, Henry. You have a keen political mind, no matter how much you try to deny it. Your father taught you well," Frank pleaded. "And you've got terrific connections. Your marriage only enhanced them. If I could get Lord Grantham on my side, it'd be a real boost."

Frank took a deep breath, agitation evident in his shaky voice. "I want to fight for change and improve the lives of … people. There are so many wrongs taking place every day in this country, and I think I can do something to right them. I'd like to try, at least."

Henry sighed. He had a business to run, and a baby coming. He was trying very hard to learn more about the estate, to help Mary and his stepson. But there was something in Frank's eyes that touched him.

"I'll think about it, Frank," Henry promised. "But how's this, to start — come to dinner at Downton to meet everybody."

Frank sat back, looking relieved. "Thank you, Henry. I think we'd all benefit from making this world a kinder place."

* * *

Mrs. Patmore placed the jar of onion jam in the basket and surveyed the finished bundle with a good deal of satisfaction. Mr. Mason would enjoy the fruits of his labor and her skills, she thought.

"Daisy! Let's go!" she called out, but turned to find her assistant cook up to her elbows in flour.

"Oh! Mrs. Patmore, I ruined the pies and must start over again," Daisy apologized. "You'll have to go without me."

Mrs. Patmore frowned. "That's not like you. Well, it can wait 'til next week, I suppose."

Daisy shook her head. "No, you must go! Mr. Mason is counting on you visiting today. I don't want him to be disappointed."

Beryl shrugged, and lifted the basket. She didn't get much time off, and this was her half-day, so she might as well make the most of it. As she left the kitchen, she missed the smile playing on Daisy's lips.

She set out for Yew Tree Farm, humming a little to herself as she strolled down the lane. It was a brisk day, but brilliantly sunny, making for a pleasant walk under the budding oak trees. Spring was her favorite time of year — everything was blossoming and growing. Soon, she would have an abundance of the freshest produce to cook, bake, pickle, and preserve. Thinking of which, she hoped Daisy hadn't ruined the pies before filling them with those strawberry preserves, they had only a few jars left.

Beryl frowned. It was so unlike Daisy to make a mistake like that, these days. What had gotten into her?

Yew Tree Farm appeared around the bend, and she saw Mr. Mason standing on his porch, a big smile lighting up his face as usual.

"Aye, I'm glad to see the sight of you," he said, taking the basket from her arm. "Where's Daisy then?"

She explained as they entered the farmhouse, where Mr. Mason encouraged her to settle on the sofa next to the stove, where a kettle was on. He peered into the basket and made appreciative murmurs as he saw what he'd brought.

"I had a nice lunch with some sausages and your pickled cabbage yesterday," he said, pouring her some tea. "You should start a business selling your goods. I don't have a doubt you'd make a fortune."

Beryl blushed and waved her hand. He was always so complimentary, so generous.

"Now, tell me your news," Mr. Mason encouraged.

They spoke of Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley's courtship, how big Jack Bates had grown, and that the housemaid Jenny had up and quit to work in a London hotel. They laughed over a story he told about an ironing mishap, and she vented about the exacting diet Lady Merton insisted Lord Merton have any time they dined at the Abbey. And she told him about the steady stream of customers at her bed and breakfast house — how its bad reputation had been wiped clean since Lord and Lady Grantham's visit.

"I'm glad you came here alone," Mr. Mason said, putting down his cup and looking rather serious.

"Oh? Why?"

He smiled and grasped one of her hands. Beryl nearly jumped out of her seat.

"I think you know I'm sweet on you, Mrs. Patmore."

"Are you?" She felt her heart fluttering in her chest, and found it hard to meet his gaze.

"Yes, and I think we'd rub along together very well, you and I. You know my wife's been gone these last, oh, nearly 14 years now, and I loved her. But I would like to find a companion, someone bustling about, cheering up the place."

"You have Daisy living here now. Isn't that enough"

Mr. Mason shook his head. "Aye, and I'm glad for it. She is the daughter I never had. But I think you know that isn't enough for me. I think you know what I'm after."

The heat rushed to her cheeks. "Do I?"

"You're a fine woman, Mrs. Patmore, a very fine woman, and I think I could make you happy, if you'd let me try. Will you think on it?"

She blinked a few times and let out the breath she'd been holding in. It had been many years since a man wooed her — she didn't count that good-for-nothing Jos Tufton. She was a little jealous of Elsie, for finding a decent and honourable man to marry. Mr. Mason had a good heart. And she was lonely — this might be her last chance at love.

"I will, Albert, I will think about it." Beryl smiled at him, and he squeezed her hand, looking pleased.

* * *

March 19, 1926

 _To: Cora Crawley, Countess of Grantham_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

 _From: Edith Pelham, Marchioness of Hexham_

 _Brancaster Castle, Northumberland_

Dear Mama,

I am sorry not to write in so long. We have been so very busy. The farms are starting their spring planting, and Bertie is run ragged in advising them. He has not hired anyone to replace him as agent, he means to do it all himself.

I have had my own tasks to fill up the days. If you can believe it, I have my own hospital drama to contend with! It is not quite the battle that you and Granny engaged in. Everyone agrees we need to modernise the village hospital, but we haven't the money to do it. And our new doctor is quite the crusader. I think I will suggest to Bertie that we open the house to raise funds, as we did at Downton.

I don't think I properly respected what you had to do in your role as countess. The claims on my attention are endless. The vicar constantly wants to speak with me, or the local women's committee, or the tenant wives. They are so relieved to have a Lady Hexham to talk to about their concerns, such as better schooling for their children.

Of course, I am interested in forming a school, specifically for young women, much like the one Aunt Rosamund is a trustee of. Bertie supports me in this, though Mother M. always raises an eyebrow when the subject comes up.

I think I will have any ally in Baroness Ravensworth — she lives at Eslington Park. We recently attended a dinner there and she is not much older than me. We discovered similar opinions on many topics, and she is an avid reader of the magazine!

Bertie is well, though the dear man is quite exhausted. Still, he always reads Marigold a bedtime story — is he not the best of husbands and fathers? I hope it shall not be long before he has more children to read to in the nursery.

Speaking of nurseries, how is Mary doing? I am not sure we will be able to come to Downton before her delivery. But Marigold will be thrilled to see Sybbie again next week. We are so looking forward to having Tom come to stay. Did I tell you I also invited my editor, Miss Edmunds?

With love,

Edith


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN: Match Game**

 _March 26, 1926_

 _Brancaster Castle, Northumberland_

The childish chatter of Marigold and Sybbie, playing at tea party with their fathers, tickled Edith's ears, but she was busy glancing out the window to the drive again.

"Are you expecting someone, Edith?" Tom asked, looking comical with a miniature cup grasped between thumb and forefinger. The sight of Bertie made her want to laugh out loud — his tall frame bent over the small table, his large hands dwarfing the tea set.

"Oh, I invited a friend to stay," she replied, airily waving her hand. Bertie rolled his eyes. He knew very well what she was doing, and had asked to leave him out of it.

Edith was matchmaking. She'd invited her editor, Laura Edmunds, to come for the weekend, timed to coincide with Tom's visit. Her brother-in-law was so dear to her, and Laura was a lovely girl. Their easy rapport last month at her cocktail party had put this idea in her brain.

"Is it someone I know?" Tom asked, giving Sybbie a kiss on the forehead as Nanny came in to fetch the children.

"Yes — Laura Edmunds, my editor," Edith said nonchalantly. She busied herself pouring another cup of tea. "She hardly ever gets out of London, and I don't know when I can go up there myself, so I thought I'd ask her for the weekend."

Tom raised an eyebrow. Bertie rolled his eyes again.

The next day, as they walked along a lovely, daffodil-lined path on the grounds, Edith nodded toward Tom and Laura, who were in an animated discussion ahead of them. She'd noticed Tom hadn't been able to tear his eyes away from Laura the evening before. "Do you think matchmaking such a bad idea, now?" she teased Bertie, squeezing his arm.

"Yes," he replied with a good-natured smile, patting her hand with his free one. "I think it's best to stay out of other people's business, especially when it comes to love."

"I'm only providing them an opportunity," Edith replied, then arched an eyebrow at him. "What would've happened had Mary never telephoned you last year? Does that not fall into the realm of matchmaking?"

Bertie scoffed. "I would have written or called, or come to Downton. It was already my plan."

"Oh, do you wish she had never called you then? If her matchmaking made things a little easier, wasn't it worth it?" Edith challenged.

He sighed and grinned affectionately down at her. "I suppose, to preserve the peace, I should say that you are right, as always."

Edith twirled her parasol to shield them from the others' sight. "A good rule to live by, husband." With that, she reached up to kiss him.

* * *

Standing on the parapet, Laura closed her eyes, breathing in the fresh, clean air. She would miss it when she returned to London today. She would miss other things, too, but it was best not to think on that too much, though.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone walking toward her — yes, it was Tom. Laura steeled herself, then turned to him with a cheerful smile. "Good morning!"

"I didn't think I'd see anyone before breakfast," he replied, grinning at her. Laura felt butterflies fluttering in her stomach, and cursed them. She _must_ stop behaving like a schoolgirl with a crush.

"I wanted one last walk before I leave for the train later," Laura replied, returning her gaze over the wall. Together, they looked out at the grassy moors, which stretched as far as the eye could see, and only ended where they met with the brilliant blue sky.

"Miss Edmunds … Laura," Tom said. "I'm glad to have the chance to speak to you alone before you go. I've enjoyed our talks here, and before, when we met in London and Downton, and I … I would like to see you again. If you'd like that, too."

The butterflies came back, though they felt more like a flock of geese now. She wasn't sure what she'd wanted more — for him to ask the very thing he was asking, or to not have spoken at all.

"I can take you to dinner, maybe dancing, though I'm not very good," Tom continued. "Or we can see a picture, or an exhibition, if you prefer."

Laura took another deep breath and faced him, willing herself to be strong and composed. The last few nights, she'd been unable to sleep, thinking about what she'd say if he did ask. Unfortunately, she hadn't come up with a brilliant answer.

"Tom, I like you," she said slowly, as her courage began to rise. "I'm not afraid to say it. But as much as I want to see you again, I also know you have a full life. You have a daughter, you own a business, you are agent at Downton Abbey. I don't demand a lot — I have my own career to keep me busy — but I … I've been in love before, and I got my heart broken, because he … he couldn't make time for me."

Laura left out the part where he had been married, or how he'd promised her again and again that he'd divorce his wife. It had all been lies, of course. She was lucky she hadn't been left with nothing more than a broken heart.

She added, "I'd rather be on my own than get involved with someone who doesn't have room for me in his life."

"I want to make room, Laura, I do. Yes, I have my duties at Downton and with the business, and of course, there's Sybbie to think about. But I want more for myself, I want more for my life," Tom said. "Look, I don't know how this will turn out, but I think there's something between us, and I think it worth exploring — away from fancy parties, away from Edith's matchmaking. Just the two of us."

Laura laughed a little and felt the iron grip on her heart relaxing. Looking into his open, artless face, she felt she could, perhaps, trust him. "She was very obvious, wasn't it?"

"Very," Tom replied, with a chuckle of his own. "I like you, Laura, very much. I'd like to see if there's more to this story. Will you give it a chance?"

She took a deep breath and bit her lip. Yes, it would be taking a chance — a chance to have her heart broken. But also a chance at love, which she hadn't thought would come to her again. Laura felt as though she were jumping off the precipice. "Well, by now you should know me well enough to realize that I always want to see how the story ends."

* * *

The following week, Bertie and Edith welcomed their neighbors to a lavish spring feast at Brancaster. It had once been tradition for the Hexhams to host a big dinner around Easter, though Peter had not adhered to it in years.

The massive dining room table gleamed with the finest china and silver, roses raided from hothouses far and wide scented the room, and temporary footmen from Newcastle looked smart in the house livery. Bertie's heart swelled with pride at the sight of Edith, splendid in a cerulean and bronze dress and an impressive tiara she'd gotten reset from a very ugly necklace, mingling so easily with their guests.

Bertie gave his wife a little wink as the ladies departed the dining room after dinner. Lord Allendale lit up a cigar and gestured it at him. "Your wife and mine are becoming as thick as thieves," the viscount noted. "All I hear about these days is their school!"

"Oh, yes. I half expect to be conscripted as a teacher," Lord Ravensworth interjected with a grin. "But I learned long ago that I am no match when Emma and Caroline join forces. I remember when they were little girls, ganging up on me to let them ride my pony while I had to act as their groom!"

They chuckled, and the the Earl of Carlisle jumped into the fray. "I had four sisters, and believe me, I never got to ride the pony. I don't think I even knew we had one until after I went to Eton."

Bertie smiled politely and nodded, though he had no such stories to share, being an only child. Of course, he'd played with Peter, when they visited at Brancaster to shoot or fish. He'd gone into the Army because, well, what else was there to do, but he had enjoyed being given a ready set of brothers in arms. Now, in marrying Edith, he'd gotten two brothers-in-law he liked a great deal, and a sister-in-law he …. respected. A smile touched his lips thinking again of how grateful he was to have her as his wife.

As they refilled their port glasses, Carlisle turned to Bertie. "I say, I saw your car in the drive, and she's an absolute beauty. I'm tempted to ask you to take her for a test run."

"Oh yes, wonderful car. It was a gift from my brothers-in-law — they started Talbon and Branson Motors, in York."

Carlisle slapped the table. "What a marvelous coincidence! I've got one of their cars myself. They are your brothers-in-law? I didn't think you had sisters." He looked puzzled.

"They're the husbands of my wife's sisters — Lady Mary Talbot and the late Lady Sibyl Branson."

Murmurs of recognition came as response to this information, and Bertie thought he heard someone whisper, " _Crawley ... the ice queen_." Carlisle then told them about his adventure taking the car for a drive on one of the winding roads on his estate. "I thought the car might tilt to one side, I took a turn so fast!" he said with a chuckle.

Bertie grinned. "I think the same thing when Edith is behind the wheel. She could probably win a race at Brooklands."

The men exchanged surprised glances, and Carlisle raised his glass in appreciation. "Well, Hexham, tell your wife I'm open to a duel anytime. Automobiles at dawn!" The men were still laughing when they rejoined the ladies in the drawing room.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** I knocked out several more chapters last week, yay! Your reviews have been so encouraging. Thanks so much and leave some more please!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWELVE: Opportunity Knocks**

 _April 8, 1926_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

Consciousness slowly dawned on Mary, whispers pushing her from sleep to wakefulness. As her eyes fluttered open, she saw her husband and son sitting on the edge of the bed, talking in low voices to each other.

She sat up groggily. "What time is it?"

Henry stood and leaned over to kiss her forehead, as George scrambled to sit beside her. "It's half past five. I'm afraid you've missed tea."

Mary shook her head in disbelief, and to clear away the cobwebs. She'd been getting so tired in the afternoons now, and required a daily nap. But she'd slept two hours today, which was unacceptable!

"Papa gave me a new car," George declared, showing her a wooden toy, painted in black and red. "I want to be a driver like him."

She shot a stern glare at Henry, who quirked an apologetic smile, and put her arm around her son, cuddling him close.

"Mummy, is the baby here yet?" George asked, gently patting her belly.

"Not yet," she replied, smoothing his golden hair. "In a few months, darling."

"I want a brother!" George demanded, and Henry laughed.

"We don't always get what we want, George," he replied, swinging his stepson into his arms. "Say goodnight to Mummy. It's time for bed."

After George had been passed off to the waiting nanny, Henry returned to sit next to her again. "Darling, you needn't come down to dinner."

"Isn't your friend, the politician, Harry, or Hamish, or whatever his name is, coming to stay?"

"It's Frank Hamilton, and yes, but if you're tired …"

Mary scowled at him. "Do I look so worn out then?"

Henry held his tongue, which irritated her further. She loved him dearly, but sometimes he could be so _diplomatic_ — it drove her batty.

"I couldn't sleep another wink right now. I'll change and go down. Anyway, I need to talk to Tom about calling at Grapevine Farm tomorrow. I'd go myself, but this is making everything difficult these days," she said, gesturing to her belly. She pushed the bedspread aside and attempted to stand.

Henry aided with a gentle push. "Tom's in London, and won't be back until Saturday," he reminded her.

Mary wanted to stamp her foot. Her bloody memory was going to pieces! Had it been like this with George? She couldn't remember … oh! She nearly screamed.

"Has he gone to see Edith's editor then?" she snapped.

"That, and he's looking at a few cars we might want to acquire."

"More cars, wonderful," she muttered, pulling the bell for Anna. "He's still the co-agent here, you know. I won't stand for him neglecting his job. Thanks to you, it's always cars this, cars that. Cars, cars, cars!"

Henry blinked. "Well, then, this news won't be music to your ears, but business has been so good, Tom and I are going to open another shop in London. And we are getting very close to producing our own signature model. You will probably hear even more about 'cars, cars, cars' in future. I apologize if that disappoints you. If _I_ disappoint you."

The wounded expression on his face woke her up like a slap across the face. She shuddered, realizing how she must've sounded to her husband. He'd put up with an awful lot from her lately. "Henry … darling, forgive me," Mary sighed. "I didn't mean to throw a tantrum. I'm just … "

"Pregnant," Henry finished, moving from behind to take her in his arms. His hands curled around her belly. "There's nothing to forgive. As for Grapevine, I'll go."

Mary turned in his embrace and raised her eyebrows. "But how would you know what to do, what to talk about?"

Henry rolled his eyes. "Do give me a little credit, Mary. I wasn't bred in the country, but I have been paying some attention these last eight months, and I am not an imbecile. In any case, you can just tell me what to do and what to say."

Her heart swelled with love. It still astonished her, even after all this time, what he wouldn't do for her sake. "Then, I say you should kiss me, as a reward for being the best husband in the whole world."

Henry did kiss her, and more. When Anna peeked in the door, she was wise enough to shut it and return some time later, and everyone else was wise enough not to comment on their late arrival to dinner.

* * *

As Thomas took Frank Hamilton's coat and hat, he couldn't help but note how handsome the gentleman was. He was tall, and very fit, but moved with the grace of a ballet dancer. When his ice blue eyes rested on him, butterflies filled Thomas's stomach.

"Am I dreadfully late? Have they all gone up to change?" Mr. Hamilton asked in a low, conspiratorial voice, leaning in toward him.

Thomas gulped. "Not at all, sir. I'll show you to your room. Your case will be taken there and unpacked for you."

Once dinner was underway, though a bit late, Thomas found himself in the pleasing position of being able to observe Frank, who was explaining his campaign plans to the family.

"I'm making a tour of the villages and towns this week, to meet people, shake hands, kiss babies, and the like," Frank said. "The other candidates and I are giving speeches in Thirsk on Wednesday. I must thank you again, Lady Grantham, for inviting me to stay."

Lady Grantham beamed at him. "Any friend of Henry's is welcome here."

 _Especially when he is so attractive_ , Thomas thought. It did no harm to look, after all.

"Maybe we should make a day of it, go see the speeches, Robert," Mr. Talbot suggested.

Lord Grantham nodded. "Might be interesting, why not?" That answer prompted Frank to grin at Henry, the sight of which sent a thrill down Thomas's spine.

Dinner ran smoothly, as did coffee and drinks afterward, and Thomas considered the night a job well done. After the family had gone up to bed, he returned to the library for a final perusal when he saw the doors were thrown open, and Mr. Hamilton was standing outside, smoking a cigarette.

"I'm sorry, sir, I thought everyone had gone up," Thomas apologized. "May I get you anything?"

Frank held up the glass in his other hand. "Lord Grantham very generously offered all the scotch I could drink." When Thomas turned to leave the room, he continued, "Would you like a smoke, Mr. Barrow?"

"Thank you, sir, but that wouldn't be right."

"Oh, hang what's right. Come on, I hate to smoke alone. And it's such a beautiful night, and the sky is glorious. "

Thomas hesitated, but that perverse side of him that enjoyed skating along the edge overcame his better sense. He accepted the proffered cigarette, and looked up — the sky looked like a dark velvet mantle, with thousands of glittering diamonds thrown across it. His breath caught.

"Never thought I'd see Talbot living in a grand house like this, or married to a real lady," Frank mused. "He's taken to it quite well, though. Fits right in. I feel like a fish out of water. I've spent too much time abroad, I think."

"You have traveled a great deal, then, sir?" Thomas admired Frank's profile, his strong chin, the curve of his lips, his patrician nose. An uneasy knot began to form in his stomach.

"Oh, yes, I've been here and there since the war. Mainly around the Mediterranean — I was in Tangiers the last year or so." Frank sighed and lit another cigarette.

"I always wanted to travel myself. His Lordship took me to America, but that's it." Thomas thought of all the dreams he'd once had, of bettering himself, striving, climbing ranks. But, no, he'd gone as far as he could go. He'd never join a great family like Mr. Branson or even dine with them like Mrs. Harding. He wouldn't even marry and live in a respectable cottage like the Carsons. No, he'd live out the rest of his days in his little room in the attic. Alone.

"Have you been here long, Mr. Barrow?"

"Half my life, sir."

"And you never thought to leave?" Frank turned to face him, the smoke curling out from his mouth.

"I was in the Army medical corps, during the war," Thomas replied, then hesitated. He wasn't sure why he was telling a stranger so much, but the other man had a way about him that put Thomas at ease. "I always thought I'd get out of service, but the right opportunity didn't come along."

"What would the right opportunity look like — to _you_?" Frank asked in a low voice, stepping a little closer. The smell of his cologne was intoxicating.

Thomas's stomach flipped and his heart began to beat faster. Perspiration dripped down his sides. "Sir, I …"

Just then, he heard his name called from outside the library, and Thomas gave a bow and excused himself. It took every ounce of willpower in him to cease trembling before he stepped into the Great Hall.

* * *

April 12, 1926

 _To: Mr. Henry Talbot_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

 _From: Bertie Pelham, Marquess of Hexham_

 _Brancaster Castle, Northumberland_

Henry,

My congratulations on the expansion of your business! That's quite an impressive feat, to embark on producing your own cars so soon. You and Tom deserve every praise.

Your name came up the other night, by the way — we hosted a dinner here and Lord Carlisle said he'd gotten one of your cars. He was quite impressed with it, and regaled the rest of the men with tales of whipping around country lanes. You should have seen the looks of astonishment when I said Edith could give him a run for his money.

I did not anticipate entertaining quite so often, but Mother insists we must, and Edith agrees with her, for now at least. We are still new to the county and must show our faces. I do it for my wife's sake, I know she is trying to win support for her school. She's already got Lady Ravenscroft and Lady Allendale on her side. It's marvelous watching her when she has such a fire in her eyes. I might put her up for Parliament.

I'm glad to hear Mary is getting along so well. She and Edith don't write to each other, really. It's a pity, but I don't suppose we can interfere. We poor husbands must let our wives sort it out.

We are in the thick of planting, and it's exhausting stuff. Two of our tenants are new this year, and need much supervision. One of them will take charge of the pigs, but that is still some months away. Do I detect more interest in estate management on your part? Shall we make a country man out of you yet?

If all goes as planned, you can expect to see us next month at Downton.

Sincerely,

Bertie


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** I'm posting early because I won't be able to tomorrow, and I figured early is better than late! Your comments, as always, are appreciated!

* * *

 **CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The Greatest Gift**

 _April 16, 1926_

 _Brancaster Castle, Northumberland_

As soon as Edith heard the door shut on Bertie, she tumbled out of bed, pulled the bell, and raced to the washroom. She barely made it, and retched on the pristine tiles of the floor.

Her body was still heaving when Mrs. Turner came in, clucking in sympathy. "My lady, shall I call the doctor this time?"

Edith, eyes closed, sank into cushions that the housekeeper had laid underneath her. "No, no, I'll be fine. I'm seeing Dr. Morris tomorrow. Please, don't breathe a word to anyone."

Mrs. Turner sighed. "I'll have Jessie clean everything up, she's as discreet as they come"

"I suppose I should promote her," Edith mused.

"I'm sure she'd be grateful, Your Ladyship. Now, I've brought the mint tea, and a piece of toast. Let's get you to the chaise."

The housekeeper helped her back to the bedroom, and Edith sipped the tea, feeling instantly soothed by the warm liquid. Her stomach still churned a little, but a few bites of toast quelled some of the nausea. She was grateful to Mrs. Turner, who'd been looking after her as Edith hadn't hired a lady's maid, but the housekeeper could be quite flinty. In some ways, she reminded Edith of her grandmother.

After wishing her better, and giving her one last meaningful look, Mrs. Turner departed to attend to other duties.

 _I will tell Bertie — as soon as I'm sure_ , Edith thought, breathing deeply in and out. The symptoms were all there, but she wanted the doctor's opinion. And when she could finally reveal the truth to her husband, she knew he'd be thrilled. A smiled touched her lips as she laid a hand on her stomach.

Her gaze drifted to a portrait of Marigold, taken for her third birthday in January and set in a frame on her vanity, and she sobered. When she and Bertie had children, they would be lords and ladies, while Marigold would not share that rank. With that disquieting thought in mind, Edith began to dress for the day.

* * *

Something was wrong with Edith. Margaret watched her daughter-in-law pretend to flip through a magazine, her eyes not quite focusing on the pages.

Edith had been late to breakfast — again — then hardly touched her food. She appeared wan and listless. To her inquiries, Edith insisted she was feeling perfectly well, but Margaret Pelham had birthed one child and miscarried several more, and had an idea of what was ailing her daughter-in-law.

So, the next morning, she traveled from her apartment to Edith and Bertie's room, waiting around the corner until her son departed. When Margaret entered the chamber, she heard the distinctive sounds of retching from the washroom, and hastened there.

"Oh, Mrs. Turner, I'm … " Edith turned to see her mother-in-law, instead of the housekeeper, and her eyes widened. "Mother!" she gasped. And then she turned back to heave again.

Margaret moved to kneel, stroking Edith's back. "There, there," she said, in a soothing tone. When Edith seemed to be finished, Margaret wiped her mouth with a towel.

"You guessed," Edith whispered, her head falling against Margaret's shoulder.

"I'm a mother. It wasn't hard to read the tea leaves," she replied dryly. Just then, Mrs. Turner appeared and looked surprised to see her there. But the housekeeper quickly recovered, and the two of them helped Edith to the chaise.

After Mrs. Turner left, Margaret fixed Edith with a pointed look. "I gather Bertie does not know, as I cannot imagine he would leave you to be ill on your own like this."

Edith shrank back into the pillows. "No, he doesn't know — yet. I have an appointment with Dr. Morris this afternoon. If he confirms what I suspect, then I will tell Bertie. I wanted to wait until tomorrow because of … well, you know."

Margaret sat on a nearby chair and examined her daughter-in-law. She was pale, no great surprise after that episode. But she also appeared distracted and discontent.

"Are you not happy?" Margaret asked bluntly. She had not witnessed any discord between her son and his wife — far from it, they behaved like fools in love — but if Edith was having any doubts, Margaret might have to wring her pretty little neck.

"Of course I'm happy!" Edith snapped. She instantly seemed to regret taking such a cross tone, and an expression of contrition crossed her face. "I am _very_ happy, Mother. I'm delighted. I've been longing for this. I know how much Bertie wants children."

"Then what is the matter?"

Edith's eyes flickered to something behind Margaret. "Now that I may be carrying our first child, I've been thinking about Marigold. How this will affect her."

Margaret blinked, and then comprehended what her daughter-in-law meant. "I think I see. You're worried she will feel … second-best to the children you have with Bertie?" she hazarded, and Edith nodded.

"I know Bertie won't treat her any differently, but others will. And it will open the door to even more gossip — if we had remained childless, nobody would have questioned our taking her in as a ward."

Margaret sighed. It was true, there was no use in denying it. But in these few months since their marriage, she had grown very fond of little Marigold. And she had grown very fond of her daughter-in-law, too.

"My dear," she said, taking Edith's hand. "Let us not pretend that Marigold will not face hardship, or that she will be accepted by everyone, if the truth comes out about her parentage. But she is accepted by her family. This child, and any others you have, will grow up loving her, because they will see how much you and Bertie love her. And they will fight for her, because you will teach them to fight for her. I fully admit I never cared for nor approved of Peter, but you saw how Bertie stood up for his cousin, even to me. Can you imagine what he will do to anyone who dares disapprove of his daughter?"

Edith half-laughed, half-sobbed. "Thank you, Mother. If you can spare the time, I would greatly appreciate your presence when the doctor comes."

Margaret squeezed her hand, and they shared a smile of perfect understanding.

* * *

"Dr. Morris?" Bertie stopped in his tracks upon seeing the doctor descend the staircase, and was alarmed to see his medical bag in hand. He had returned home early after a visit to the dairy had been cut short. "Is someone ill?"

Dr. Morris hesitated. "I had an appointment with Lady Hexham."

A chill came over Bertie. "What's wrong with her?" he demanded, and panic set in as the doctor again seemed reluctant to speak.

"Everything is perfectly alright, son." He looked up to see his mother coming down the stairs. "Perhaps you should go see her. She's in her room."

Bertie didn't even care if it was rude to push past both Dr. Morris and his mother — he took the stairs two at a time and pounded down the hall to their bedchamber. When he slammed the door open, though, Edith was sitting at her vanity, fixing her hair, as though nothing were the matter.

"What's going on? I saw Dr. Morris downstairs," he demanded. "Are you ill?"

She smiled and rose to meet him, taking his hands in hers. "Calm down, darling," Edith said, leading them to the settee at the foot of the bed. "I'm not ill. Dr. Morris was here to see me, but for the very best of reasons."

Bertie furrowed his brow — the best of reasons? What on Earth did that mean? And why was Edith beaming so? Then, it dawned on him. "Are you … are you … ?"

Edith tenderly cupped his face in her hands. "I'm pregnant."

He felt as if his heart might burst out of his chest. A multitude of feelings washed over him — wonder, relief, confusion, fear. But mostly joy. "Oh my darling," he breathed, kissing her over and over again. Bertie pulled Edith into a tight embrace, tears pricking at his eyes.

"I take it you're happy." Her voice was muffled against his chest.

He disengaged to sit back and look her in the face. Edith's eyes were shining with tears, too. "Very happy. More than words can express," Bertie replied, kissing her again. Then, he frowned. "We're taking the train to London as soon as can be arranged."

"Bertie! That's hardly necessary." Edith shook her head. "Dr. Morris is perfectly capable."

"I don't care. I want you to see the best doctor we can find on Harley Street to make sure everything is ship shape."

Edith rolled her eyes, but shrugged in acquiescence. "Alright then. I want to stop in at the magazine anyway. But you are being ridiculous."

"Indulge me, please."

"Fine, we'll do whatever you want, especially since it is your birthday tomorrow," she replied, caressing his cheek. "Oh, I so wanted this to be a surprise and now that's done with."

He turned to kiss her palm, and felt emotion welling up in his chest again. "Consider it an early gift. It's certainly the best birthday present I've ever gotten."


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN:**

 _April 25, 1926_

 _London, England_

Rosamund sighed quietly to herself as she looked around the dining table. Once again, she'd found herself the odd woman out — this time, a fifth wheel to Edith and Bertie and Laura and Tom. She knew where a sixth place would have been set, had she not broken off with Sir Charles last week.

It had to be done. He'd proved more infirm than she'd realized, and Rosamund had no wish to play nursemaid. She was no Lady Merton, and in her case, at least Isobel loved Dickie, who was also much improved. Rosamund could never love Sir Charles, however nice he was.

"Will the miners strike?" Edith was asking, as Rosamund returned her attention to the conversation.

"I believe so, it's just a matter of time, unfortunately," replied Bertie. "The negotiations are falling apart."

Edith sighed. "They should strike. After that article in _The Sketch_ , I cannot believe they would ask the miners to take a pay cut. It's despicable. Their wages are bad enough as it is."

Laura shrugged her shoulders. "I agree that their wages are too low, but will a strike really help them? They could be out of work for weeks or months without ever achieving their goals. Look at what happened to those women in the Irish linen factories when they demanded better conditions — they were replaced. What will happen to them, to their families? Can they find other work?"

Tom smiled brilliantly at her. "A good point, Laura. And this is why we are losing workers to America — there they can find higher wages, and better themselves, as they can't do here."

The discussion continued into the drawing room until Bertie and Edith went to bed, and Tom left to escort Laura home.

The next day, Rosamund went to the magazine office to meet Edith for a shopping expedition. Her niece was still busy talking to the staff, so she was dawdling in the foyer when someone said, "Well, you're a sight for sore eyes."

She instantly recognized the deep voice, and whirled. "Mr. Archer! I did not know you would be here."

"That's because I didn't tell anyone," he replied with an insouciant grin. "I'm turning in an article. I'm sure they'll be as surprised as I am that it's early." John paused and glanced into Laura's office, where Edith was surrounded by her editor, secretary, and two other magazine workers. "Is that the famous Lady Edith? I'd like to meet her. Quite the writer herself, it seems."

Rosamund murmured an acknowledgement, as she surreptitiously examined him. His hair was even longer, and his stubble growing into a beard. His clothing was not fashionable and verging on worn out. Yet, he still took her breath away. She'd never been attracted to someone so much in her life. She _ached_ with desire, like a story out of a novel.

"I am glad to run into you, though. I've been in Scotland, but I wanted to look you up now that I'm back," John said, moving closer, and she could smell his cologne, the slight scent of sweat, and something else — she could describe it as nothing other than _manliness_. "I want to take you to this seedy little joint I've found. Best jazz singer I've ever heard, strong drinks, and dark corners where people can get lost for hours."

Rosamund shook her head, mostly to free herself from the vision of him holding her close in his burly arms. "Is that your way of asking me on a date?" she huffed. "I think I must decline."

John raised his eyebrows and amusement glinted in his green eyes. "Why?"

"It's not … it's not quite proper! And how old are you? You must be more than 10 years my junior."

"I'm 46, if it really matters, but who cares?" he said with a shrug. Then, he leaned in even closer. "And as for it not being proper, well … that's kind of the point."

Rosamund's heart raced so fast, she thought he might hear it. His eyes held hers, like magnets. She gulped.

John grinned again, this time triumphantly. "I'll pick you up at 9." And with that, he went into the office to meet Edith.

* * *

 _April 26, 1926_

 _Downton Village, Yorkshire_

"Your Ladyship, there is a telephone call."

Isobel looked up from the book she was reading to see their butler in the sitting room doorway. "Who is it, Donaldson?"

"Larry Grey, my lady."

She frowned. "Did you tell him his father is out?"

Donaldson inclined his head. "I did. He wished to speak to you, if Your Ladyship is willing."

This intelligence rather astonished her. Larry wished to speak to her? He and Dickie still communicated, cold and infrequent as it was. But all these months, he had never even deigned to address _her_.

Curiosity won out, and Isobel went to the hall to pick up the telephone.

"Hello, Larry?" she said tentatively.

"Mrs … Lady Merton," Larry answered in a low voice, and he sounded very tired. "I am sure you have no wish to speak to me, but I thought you and my father should know. Amelia … Amelia gave birth. The baby was stillborn."

A wave of grief rushed over her, and she closed her eyes. "Oh, Larry," Isobel breathed. "I'm so sorry. I'm so dreadfully sorry."

"It's …. he was a boy." There was silence, and Isobel half-thought he'd hung up, but she heard a faint crackle. "I'm … " And then Larry began to cry.

Even in her sadness, Isobel could not help but think this was the first time she'd ever experienced Larry having any emotion other than haughty disdain. For some reason, her mind brought up twin pictures of Matthew, at the age of 10, pouting because he hadn't gotten his pudding, and Matthew, anguish twisting his face because he couldn't walk after his injury in the war.

"Larry, what can we do?" she asked, concentrating on keeping her voice steady and resolute. "Shall we come to Cavenham? We can be there at once."

His sobs slowly ceased. "If you … that is, yes, if you and … and my father could come, we would be …" Larry trailed off, his voice thick from the tears. "We are having a little service for … him Thursday."

Isobel paused, unsure if she should say what she was about to say. Larry had been so terrible to her before — but no, in this moment, she had to trust her instinct. "I had a stillborn girl, before Matthew," she shared softly. "I understand how you and Amelia must be feeling."

Larry sniffled, and there was another long silence. Isobel waited, holding her breath. Finally, he said, "Thank you … Isobel. I am grateful, more than I can say."


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note:** So glad you liked that scene with Isobel and Larry. By no means is he a good person now, but I always admired the strength in Isobel's character on the show and wanted to write something that would display it again. Thanks for all the encouraging reviews, and please leave some more!

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIFTEEN: This Kiss**

 _May 10, 1926_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

Miss Baxter tried to hide a smile as she watched Mr. Molesley straighten the picnic blanket, then carefully unpack the contents of the basket, making sure each item had its proper place. H

"Joe, it looks wonderful," she said, when he swept his arm to indicate where she should sit.

He ducked his head, his ears turning pink. "Mrs. Patmore and Daisy did most of it, really," he replied, pouring a cup of lemonade.

"But it was your idea, and it's a lovely way to celebrate my birthday," Phyllis said, smoothing out the skirt of her finest blue day dress — one of Lady Grantham's, made over from two years past.

Joe handed her a plate with a sandwich. "Did you enjoy your time at Brancaster?"

Phyllis nibbled at it, closing her eyes in delight. Mrs. Patmore knew her favorite — egg salad with dill. After chewing for a moment, she replied, "Oh yes, it's such a beautiful place. I went on some lovely walks on the moors, since Her Ladyship hardly required me. Lady Hexham asked after you — how you are doing at the school. I told her you are getting on very well."

Joe raised his eyebrows and looked surprised and pleased. "That's kind of her. She was always very nice to me. It's funny that she ended up the great lady, and not Lady Mary. I don't think anybody could have guessed that."

"Yes, and while Downton Abbey is reducing staff, they are hiring at Brancaster," Phyllis mused. "Lady Hexham finally got a lady's maid, and they say Lord Hexham is looking for an agent."

"I don't suppose Lady Mary would ever lose her job here, so she won't be in the running," Joe joked.

They shared a rueful smile, and continued eating their sandwiches. It was a fine day, quite warm in the sun. Joe had chosen a spot next to a picturesque stream on a far corner of the estate. But Phyllis wasn't quite content, for there was something she wanted for her birthday, and she was not sure she'd get it. She wanted a kiss.

Joe was rather old-fashioned. Their courtship had been pleasant, but placid, and certainly not physical. She was not young anymore, and no longer was seized by those wild impulses that had led her astray with Peter Coyle. But beneath her gentle exterior, there was a woman of passion. She just was not sure if underneath Joe's gentle exterior, there was a man of passion.

After they'd eaten the cake, and she'd exclaimed over Joe's gift — a very pretty brooch — she still hadn't gotten a kiss. Phyllis decided she might need to take matters into her own hands.

"Can I request one last thing, Joe?" she asked, peeking at him from beneath her eyelashes. He nodded. "Will you kiss me, please?"

He looked astonished, but not a moment passed before he leaned in to press his lips on her. His hand snaked around her, and Joe pulled her toward him, nearly onto his lap. The kiss deepened, and felt glorious. She thought she might not ever want it to end, but a chattering of birds wakened them to where they were.

He pulled back, his breath unsteady. "Did that suit?" Joe asked, a hint of mirth dancing in his eyes.

"Oh, yes," Phyllis murmured, then grinned cheekily. "Can it be my birthday every day?"

With a chuckle, he gave her one last, more chaste kiss, and they began to pack up the basket.

* * *

 _May 18, 1926_

 _Brancaster Castle, Northumberland_

Bertie regarded the young man sitting across the desk from him. Max Ward was young, very young — just twenty eight years old, but his service in the Army was exemplary, his references were glowing, and he was a distant relation, a second cousin on his mother's side.

Bertie templed his fingers under his chin. "Max, with your education and training, you could get any number of jobs — in the civil service, for instance. And London would be much more exciting than Brancaster. Are you sure you want to be stuck up here in Northumberland at your age?"

Max flushed so that his face nearly matched his auburn hair. "Yes, I'm sure, but … may I be frank, my lord?"

"Please continue to call me Bertie. And yes, be as frank as you wish to be."

Now, Max turned even more scarlet. "The thing is, my sweetheart works here. Her name is Jessie, Jessie Harris. We first met eight years ago, before she came to Brancaster."

Bertie blinked in surprise. "Ah yes, Harris. She just became Edith's maid," he said. "Eight years is a long time. You must've been very young."

"We fell in love the moment we met, but as you say, we were too young and did not have the means to marry, and then I was stationed in Gibraltar. But we have written each other faithfully, and have only been waiting for an opportunity. When I learned from my aunt that you were hiring an agent, it seemed the perfect thing."

He tapped his fingers against the desk. Edith was quite fond of Jessie. "And when you marry, would Miss Harris leave her position? She only recently attained it."

Max shook his head, and his color returned to normal. "No, she wants to continue on. Of course, this would depend on your allowing her to live with me in the agent's house, but she would like to keep working," he explained, then hesitated.

It was very neat and tidy, Bertie thought. Max was a good fit for a number of reasons, but more than any of those considerations, he knew Edith would want him to give Max the job, so that he and Jessie could start their life together. Inwardly, he smirked at the thought that he was playing Cupid.

"Well, Max, I give you my warmest congratulations on your forthcoming nuptials." Bertie grinned, and stood.

Max's mouth dropped open. "Then, I've got the job?"

"Yes. Now run along and tell your fiancee the good news." The two men shook hands, and Bertie chuckled as Max nearly ran out of the room.

All that talk of love and weddings made him miss Edith, and he decided to seek her out, as it was nearly tea time. But when he entered the green drawing room, her favorite, only his mother was present.

"Where's Edith?" he asked.

His mother set aside her embroidery. "I believe she's upstairs, resting. She decided to walk to Pike's Pond today, though I tried to talk her out of it."

Bertie gaped. "Pike's Pond? That's … it must've taken her at least an hour to get here — more! And then to return!"

His mother pursed her lips. "Like I said, I expressed my disapproval, but you know how Edith can be."

Oh, he knew. He knew too well. Bertie sighed, and after taking leave of his mother, he went to their room. He found Edith reclining on the bed, a letter in her hands.

"I had a note from Tom," she relayed with a cheerful smile. "He's going down to London again next week. I hate to say 'I told you so,' but I suppose I just said it."

Bertie crossed his arms and loomed over his wife. "Mother said you walked to Pike's Pond today."

"Oh yes, it was so beautiful with all the flowers in bloom. I gathered some to press with Marigold … " she trailed off upon seeing his foreboding expression.

"Edith! It must be four kilometers there and back! And in some difficult terrain, there are hardly any good lanes or roads along the way."

She shrugged and her dark eyes glinted with defiance. "It wasn't so bad. Bertie, really, you worry too much."

He huffed, and pressed his fingers to his temples, which were throbbing. Bertie tried never to let his temper get the best of him — Mother had quite gotten that out of his system as a child — but he felt he was losing a battle with the rising tide of frustration in him.

"Edith, anything might have happened to you out there! And there are a thousand routes to get to Pike's Pond. If the worst had come to pass, it might have taken us hours and hours to find you, and in the dark!" He took a deep breath to try to calm himself.

She looked contrite. "Bertie, I don't mean to worry you, but darling, you cannot keep me penned in here with soft pillows. You know I need to get out, be active." Edith grasped his hand and pulled him to next to her on the bed.

"Oh, darling. How ever are we going to soothe your nerves for the next five months?"

He laughed weakly, and let her draw him into a kiss. With his emotions still high, the kiss quickly turned fervent, and he felt Edith's fingers undoing his tie. Bertie ran his hands down her sides, over the curves made more ample by the pregnancy. He moaned when Edith lightly nipped his ear.

The worry and anger he'd felt began melting into passion. Edith gently pulled him down on top of her. "Shall we see if this works?" she whispered, hitching up her dress.

Lord and Lady Hexham never made it down to tea or dinner that evening.


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Family Ties**

 _May 25, 1926_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

As Tom sipped his coffee, Mary pointedly asked, "So, you're off to London? _Again_?"

She arched her eyebrows at him, in that very Mary fashion. He hid a sigh and glanced at Henry, who merely returned an infinitesimal shrug and busied himself eating his eggs. Clearly, he wouldn't be any help.

"Yes, I'll catch the first train after breakfast."

She rolled her eyes, and continued buttering her toast. The set of her mouth clearly indicated she had more to say, so Tom waited. And he did not have to wait long.

"Is she worth it?" Mary asked, her speech even more clipped than usual. "She always seemed to me an independent sort, the type who won't be content as a wife and mother. "

For a moment, he thought to deliver an angry retort. Then, he wanted to chuckle, but he didn't dare. Henry's eyes certainly danced with mirth, but he didn't dare either. They both knew what this was about – Mary hated to lose "her men" to anybody. She was jealous to her core. The world should revolve around her, and when it didn't, well, God speed to whomever lay in her sight.

But Tom wasn't about to let that be Laura. "Yes, she's worth it. And you're right — it's not her main ambition in life to be a wife and mother, and I like her all the more for it."

Mary wiped her mouth delicately with a napkin. "I hate to bring it up again, Tom, but you have not always had the best taste in your ... _friends_. Shall I remind you off Miss Bunting?" she said scathingly. "And on top of it, she's Edith's choice. I should think that to be a poor recommendation."

Now, Henry spoke up. " _Mary_."

Mary huffed and tossed her head. "Oh, perhaps that's unfair. I only want what's best for you, Tom, and I am not sure Miss Laura Edmunds is it."

Tom pushed back from the table, and leveled a hard look at her. "Mary, I would think _you_ should be the last person giving advice on love," he said coldly. "Let me make my own choices, and if they are mistakes, at least I had the courage to make them. But Laura is no mistake." And he left the breakfast room to finish packing.

Later, as he went down the stairs to leave for the train station, he was surprised by Mary coming out of the shadows of the entryway. She looked almost … sorry. It was a rare expression for her; he didn't think she'd worn it above two or three times in the many years he'd known her.

"Tom … please forgive me. Henry gave me quite the tongue-lashing after breakfast. Honestly, I'm your sister and his wife, but the two of you always gang up on me," Mary began, then stopped short. Clearly, she was unused to apologizing. "I really do only want the best for you. I want to make sure you know what you're about."

He sighed. "Mary, I know your intentions are good, even if the way you express them is harsh. But as I tried to tell you before you married Henry — love can't be controlled or planned. It just happens. I should think you, of all people, would know that best, after _both_ your marriages."

Mary bit her lip. "I know. I … " she faltered for a moment. "I am being entirely selfish, because I will miss you when you marry and go away."

Tom smiled gently. "I don't know for certain if I'm going to marry Laura. I am falling in love with her, and I can see it as a real possibility," he replied. "But if I do marry her, or anyone else, you won't lose me. I may not be a Crawley by birth, but I'm one of you now. My younger self would've ranted and raved at the idea, but I am. I will always be part of your family, Mary."

She shook herself into a straighter posture, and pretended to gaze out of the door to the drive. But Tom knew better. In an impulse of the moment, he grasped Mary's hand.

Mary looked startled, and smiled brilliantly in that oh-so-very Lady Mary way of hers. "Now, we're getting far too sentimental. Henry will tease me for days," she said. But she squeezed his hand in return. "We'll see you in a few days time. Do give Miss Edmunds our best."

Tom nodded, and walked out the door to the waiting car.

* * *

 _June 2, 1926_

 _York, England_

Mr. Carson peered down at the young man nervously surveying the line of spoons before him. As he reeled off their names, Carson nodded his approval and checked off a line in his notebook. "Very good, Martin. You're a fast learner."

As he went around the room, drilling his students on which fork to use with fish and how to properly set a tea tray, he thought of all the young men and women that he had overseen in his many years at Downton. Martin reminded him off young Alfred, so eager and determined to advance.

The clock struck four. "That is all for today," Carson said, as the trainees gathered their personal items. "Be sure to study up on dinner service — it will make up a significant portion of next week's exam."

As they departed, he noticed a middle-aged gentleman hovering near the door. "May I help?" Carson asked.

The gentleman came forward, a card in his outstretched hand. "Mr. Carson?" At his nod, the man continued, "My name is Clifford Bell. I work for The Savoy in London. We have heard very good things about the training you give here, and we wish to offer you position at our hotel."

Carson was rather flabbergasted. "I'm … I'm honored, sir. I did not realize my work here had been talked of."

"Oh yes, indeed. We have two new waiters who were trained by you, and they have already earned more responsibility," Mr. Bell said. "You see, Mr. Carson, we are ever in need of new staff — with so much competition amongst the hotels, we have a devil of a time retaining them. But hiring often brings us green workers, who don't know a grapefruit spoon from a soup spoon. That is why we need you, and your background as a butler and your efforts here are everything The Savoy needs."

Carson blinked a few times, and drew in a deep breath. "I thank you for the compliment, Mr. Bell. I shall have to think about it and discuss it with my wife."

"Yes, of course. Moving to London is a big step. You have my card. Ring with your answer." Mr. Bell smiled and bid him farewell.

Carson hardly knew what to think. He looked at Mr. Bell's card again and again as he left The Grand York Hotel, and caught the bus that would take him to Downton village. Move to London! Work at one of the premier hotels in the world! What would Elsie think? He ruminated on that the entire ride.

On the days he worked at the hotel, Elsie ate dinner with the staff, while he fixed himself a simple supper. He was quite proud of being a rather decent cook. So, it was not until late that she returned to their home.

"How was your day?" he asked, helping to remove her coat. She sat with a weary sigh in her favorite comfortable chair.

"Nanny has a cold, so Anna and I took turns watching the children. They do get up to some mischief," she replied with a chuckle. "And how was training?"

"The students are making excellent progress." He poured her a steaming cup of tea. "And I had a visitor."

"Oh?"

"From London. A Mr. Bell who works at The Savoy. He offered me a job. It seems my work in York has reached their ears, and they wish me to train their staff."

Elsie's eyes went round. "My word!"

"It would mean moving to London," he said carefully, watching her reaction.

Her face fell just the tiniest bit, he saw, but she quickly schooled it into a more neutral expression. "I see. And if we move to London, what would I do? Find another position?"

Charlie reached over to grasp her hand, which had been continually stirring the tea, to force her to look at him. "No, since I intend to turn them down."

"Oh!" Elsie exclaimed, then frowned. "Without discussing it with me?"

"Well, we have just discussed it. I knew by your reaction that you were not in favor of it."

She sighed. "Charlie, if it's something you really want to do, we should consider it."

"What I really want to do is enjoy a good life with my beautiful wife, who has worked hard for many years to attain the position she has," he declared. He saw her start at his words. That she was surprised that he would sacrifice for her wounded him slightly, but he thought perhaps his behavior and demeanor over the years warranted it. Charlie was no so unaware of his own faults that he did not realize how tyrannical he could be at times.

"This kind of decision must factor in the both of us. I thought about it, and I do not want to tear you away from a place we've both called home for so long. It's not just me anymore — it's us."

Her face melted into a look of such love, that it nearly took his breath away. "Charles Carson, you do surprise me sometimes."

"I vowed to honour you, Elsie, and I take being a good husband seriously."

She leaned over to kiss him. "You get top marks in that, my love."


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note:** Thank you again for all the reviews! I love hearing from all of you!

* * *

 **CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Changed By Love**

 _June 11, 1926_

 _Thirsk, Yorkshire_

Thomas watched in satisfaction as the clerk wrapped his new gloves to pack. They were a bit of an indulgence, but he'd felt like treating himself. He sent some money back home to his family, but there were few enough of them left. And none who cared about him.

He left the shop in good spirits, thinking he'd stop in at the tea shop for a delicious confection, when he spied a familiar face across the street. Frank Hamilton, coming out of the telegram office. His stomach turned over.

Frank saw him, too, and immediately began to cross the street toward him. For a moment, Thomas considered walking back into the shop. But it was too late — "Mr. Barrow, it's nice running into you!" Frank exclaimed, putting out his hand.

He had no choice but to shake it. "Mr. Hamilton, this is a pleasant surprise," Thomas replied, putting on a pleasant smile. "Campaigning again?"

"Not today. Simply some business. Didn't think I'd run into you here, away from the Abbey."

"It's my half-day," Thomas explained. "I should be getting back soon."

Frank tilted his head toward a car across the street. "Why don't I give you a lift?"

A bead of sweat trickled slowly down Thomas's face, from his left ear to his neck. "I … I couldn't … I wouldn't want you to go out of your way."

"I'm going to York, so you're on the way. Come on."

It was hard to argue with that, and Thomas found himself sitting in the passenger's seat of Frank's car, which he'd apparently just bought from Mr. Talbot.

"How is Talbot? I saw him a few weeks ago, when I picked up this divine machine, but he barely had time to say hello. I gather the missus is far along," Frank said, as he started the car, and they pulled out into the streets of Thirsk.

"Lady Mary is in very good health," Thomas said carefully. "Mr. Talbot seems to be taking more of an active role on the estate, now that she is more absent."

Frank snorted, as he maneuvered the car along the road winding down through the country. "They do say love changes a man. I never would have believed it of Henry, though, unless I'd seen it for myself when I was at Downton. But, no, I suppose I understand. I understand that very well."

"I loved someone once, many years ago, and it changed me, too," Frank added softly.

Thomas glanced at him out of the side of his eyes, in surprise. So, he'd been wrong. "Why didn't you marry her, sir?"

"I think, Mr. Barrow, you know very well why I couldn't marry that _person_." Now he turned to look Thomas, his blue eyes piercing his very soul. "What about you? Haven't you loved anyone?"

Thomas gulped, perspiration dripping down his scalp. He had not been wrong, then. "I've had … friends," he answered hesitantly. "Service can be a lonely life.

Frank reached out with one hand to cover his. "You don't always need to be alone … Thomas."

Thomas felt a tingle — a mixture of terror, confusion, and delight. But he squeezed Frank's hand in return, and they continued to drive in charged silence toward Downton Abbey.

* * *

 _June 19, 1926_

 _Brancaster Castle, Northumberland_

"That was Mama," Edith pronounced as she entered Bertie's office. "Mary's gone into labour. I'm taking the first train after luncheon with Marigold."

Her husband frowned and stood. "What? Now? We weren't to go down there for a few more weeks."

She shrugged. "Oh, you know Mary — she always likes to do everything on her own time."

"Edith, I can't just up and leave on a moment's notice. I'm meeting with Max at the proposed mining location this afternoon. Why don't we wait until tomorrow?"

Edith sighed. She loved Bertie, dearly, but sometimes he could be so … so ... organised and fussy. She'd been happy to indulge him at the first, when she was so delighted by her pregnancy. But in the past few weeks, while she had more or less returned to her usual routine, he had not relaxed a jot. If he wasn't watching her like a hawk about her eating (was it enough? was it too much?) or her sleep (she seemed to toss and turn all night?), he was trying to prevent her from driving or taking walks.

"Honestly, you don't need to come at all," she said. "Marigold and I will go for a flying visit, see the new baby, and come back before you miss us."

He pressed his lips together in a familiar way — she knew it meant he was highly annoyed. And that, in turn, annoyed _her_. "Edith, I would like to escort you and our daughter. Can you not wait?"

She fixed him with a defiant stare. "Why should I? I can leave now, so I will. If you want to join us, follow in the morning. Nothing terrible is going to happen to me in the half day I will be out of your sight." With that, Edith marched from the room, a dark cloud forming around her head. Really, Bertie was starting to be insufferable.

She went upstairs, rang for Jessie, and asked her maid to pack for three or four days, nothing too fancy, and then informed Nanny to do the same for Marigold. When the trunks were brought down, she was surprised to see her husband waiting by the car, but she supposed he was there to wish them goodbye. He wasn't.

"I've canceled the meeting today, I'm going with you," Bertie said shortly, gesturing for her to enter the car first. His mouth was set in a line of grim determination. He'd never resembled his mother more.

Edith rolled her eyes at him, not able to say anything since Marigold was there, delighted with her Papa's company. Once they were on the train, she opened a book, determined not to speak to him for the rest of the trip to Downton.

* * *

When they arrived for tea, they were told that Mary's labour had been a false alarm. She was fine, but on bed rest. Dinner was rather awkward, and Bertie appreciated Henry for telling an entertaining story about a client who didn't know the brake from the gas pedal. He saw Robert and Cora exchange meaningful glances at the coldness between himself and Edith, but they were too polite to say anything. Edith went to bed early, and was asleep by the time he came upstairs.

She seemed in better spirits at breakfast the next morning, and Bertie hoped they might have a chance to talk after eating. But then she asked Tom what he was doing that day.

"We just fixed up two cars — real beauties. Henry and I were going to test them out in Catterick today, but I suppose I'll go alone," he said.

Edith grinned. "Oh, can I come? I can drive the second car, in Henry's absence."

Bertie shot her a stern look. "Edith, I really don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?" she asked, tilting her head in a way that Bertie knew was trouble. "We're not racing. We're just driving. I'm perfectly capable of that, and it's hardly dangerous."

Bertie took a deep breath to quell his frustration. He loved his wife for her strength and courage, but could she not see she was taking such risks? But when he opened his mouth to speak again, Edith jumped in.

"Really, Bertie, your overprotectiveness was endearing at first, but it's become too ridiculous!" she declared with an icy stare. "I'm not a child, I don't need a nanny."

"But Edith, in your condition … " Bertie began, but stopped when Edith pushed back from the table and stood.

"My condition! I'm pregnant, not struck down with illness. Honestly, men haven't a clue — you might lead countries and wage wars, but when you've got a cold, it's as if the world is ending! It's women who are made of sterner stuff. I'm going to Catterick, and there's nothing you can to stop me. Tom, I'm going to fetch my hat and coat, and I'll meet you outside."

With that, she sailed out of the breakfast room. Tom shrugged apologetically at Bertie, and departed himself.

Bertie looked over at Henry, who appeared to be hiding a smile. "I'm glad you're amused," he said gruffly.

"I'm sorry, Bertie, I don't mean to make sport of you," Henry replied. "Look, Edith is a lot like my wife, though neither of them would admit it. These Crawley women are strong and independent, and certainly don't like to be told what to do."

Bertie sighed. Oh, he knew that about Edith, too well. Henry suggested they take the children for a walk, to get his mind off of things.

It helped, a little — laughing at Marigold and George and Sybbie as they frolicked with Tiaa did lighten the mood. By the time everyone gathered for tea, Bertie had decided he must make the first overture. He knew Edith was too stubborn to do it, and he hated to be at odds with her.

While Robert, Cora, Henry, and Tom were busy with the children, Bertie drew Edith outside the open doors. "Darling, I don't want to fight," he began, taking her hands in his. "I'm sorry to be such an overbearing ogre. It's just that, if something happened to you and the baby, I would go to pieces. I wouldn't survive it." He couldn't prevent a tremor from shaking his voice, or tears from springing to his eyes. "You do know that, don't you? I love you so very much."

Edith's stony expression melted. "Oh, Bertie … I love you, too," she said. "I know you worry. About me, about the baby, Marigold, the estate, the pigs, the roof on the rectory, the chimney in the yellow drawing room, I could go on and on … " She smiled teasingly. "But darling, we have months to go, and you'll worry yourself to death if you keep this up every time I leave your sight for more than a few moments. I'm a grown woman, and I've done this before, so can you please have a little faith in me?"

Bertie bowed his head so that it nearly touched hers. "I have every faith in you, darling," he said. And though everyone in the library could see them, he pulled her close for a kiss. "I will _try_ not to smother you."

Edith caressed his cheek. "And I will _try_ to be more understanding."


	18. Chapter 18

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Fast and Furious**

 _June 20, 1926_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

Henry tried to slip into the bed as quietly and with little movement as he could, but Mary grumbled and he knew she was awake.

"What time is it?" she asked, sighing as she turned to face him in the darkness.

"Late," he replied. "Go back to sleep."

"I wasn't asleep," she said. "Did you all have fun downstairs today? I envy you. I've been stuck up here, trying to go to sleep and failing miserably."

Henry chuckled and slung his arm over her. "It was interesting, at least. Edith and Bertie had a row at breakfast, but they've got it all sorted it out now."

"I didn't think Bertie capable of a row," she murmured, snuggling as close to him as her large, protruding belly would allow. "I wish I'd seen it, it would've bored me to sleep in an instant, I'm sure. All lovey-dovey faces and insisting the other is in the right." She made a noise of derision.

He shook his head in amusement. His wife didn't give people much credit. He was lucky to be an exception — sometimes.

Henry closed his eyes, and the next thing he knew, Mary was shaking his shoulder. Cracking his eyes open, he saw it must be morning, as slits of light peeked through the curtains. "Henry!" His wife's face was contorted in pain. "It's … call Dr. Clarkson!"

He instantly sprang out of bed and pulled the bell. After pulling on his robe, he went on to the next few tasks: go down the hall to Lord and Lady Grantham's bedroom and knock to wake them; go to the Great Hall, telephone the doctor; then return to their bedroom. Henry was relieved to see Anna in the hallway.

"I've called Dr. Clarkson again," he informed her, and she nodded.

"I'll go downstairs and prepare what's needed," she replied, then whisked away.

When he entered their chamber, he found Cora sitting on the edge of the bed, holding Mary's hand. "Could this be false pains again?" Henry asked.

Cora shrugged, as Mary winced. "It could be, there's no way of telling until Dr. Clarkson arrives. Have you told the others yet?"

"No, I'll let them wake on their own. Tom will up soon anyway, and I'm sure Bertie will, too."

Some time later, Dr. Clarkson arrived and banished him from the room to exam Mary. When he was done, he pronounced that this was, indeed, the real thing. Henry bit his lip upon hearing that news.

"But it's still so early. Isn't it too early?" he asked worriedly.

"Like I said yesterday, it's hard to predict the exact due date. It's a good guess, at the best," Dr. Clarkson reassured him. "But now that it's begun, this birth is moving faster than her last. I advise you to speak to her again, and then go downstairs with the other gentlemen."

Henry nodded, and returned to their room. Mary was drenched in sweat and grimacing in pain. Cora, with a sympathetic glance, left the two of them alone for the moment.

"Darling, you're doing a splendid job," he told her, holding her hand. He wished he could do more to alleviate her pain — Henry had never seen her so vulnerable.

She moaned. "Am I? It doesn't feel like it."

Henry kissed her wrist. "It'll all be over soon, and then we'll have a beautiful little boy or little girl to spoil rotten."

She clutched his hand tightly. "Just … just don't go anywhere," Mary gasped as another contraction rippled through her.

"Where would I go?" he chuckled.

"Don't go for a drive," she whispered, her dark eyes beseeching him. "Not today."

Henry's heart wrenched, and he sobered instantly. Her first husband's death had hardly come up since they married, but naturally, giving birth would bring it to mind. "No, of course not," he replied soothingly. "I'll be downstairs with George. He and the girls want to play at farmer today. I'll tell him to expect his new brother or sister soon."

Mary closed her eyes and nodded in relief. Then, she cried out, and the doctor and nurse rushed into the room, and Henry was forced out. He prayed that it wasn't the last time he'd talk to his wife.

* * *

Mary gazed down at the tiny bundle in her arms. Her daughter had dark hair, dark eyes, and the tiniest rosebud mouth — she was perfection. Mary already adored her.

"She is a darling," Edith declared in a soft voice. She caught Mary's eye, and they shared a knowing smile. "And she definitely has her father in her — racing into the world like that."

The birth had taken no time at all, it was true. The door opened, and Henry came in. He gingerly walked over to the bed and sat beside her. "Everything's alright?" he whispered, and his eyes widened when their daughter opened her mouth to yawn.

"Everything is wonderful," Mary replied, handing the infant into his waiting arms as Edith and her mother left the room. "Meet your daughter."

Henry looked rather thunderstruck — much like Matthew had. She briefly closed her eyes and sent her love to him in heaven. And her thanks, for looking over her during the birth. She sent him one last prayer: that Henry live to watch his child grow up, as Matthew hadn't.

"She's beautiful, Mary. What shall we call her? I suppose we never discussed it."

Mary considered. "I don't know … perhaps a name from your family?"

Henry shrugged. "Frances, after my grandmother? No, she doesn't look like a Frances." The baby started mewling a little, and he started.

Mary laughed. "She doesn't like it, either."

"She's got strong opinions already." Henry grinned at her. "I know — we should call her after your grandmother."

"Violet?" Mary tilted her head. "Violet Talbot?"

They both looked at their daughter, and she appeared to smile. "It's settled," Henry declared. He softly stroked Violet's cheek with his thumb. "My lovely daughter, Violet, and my tremendous wife, Lady Mary. My cup runneth over."

* * *

 _June 24, 1926_

 _Downton Dower House, Yorkshire_

"Are you not pleased?" Isobel's voice cut through Violet's haze. She shook herself to attention.

"Oh, of course I'm flattered they should name her after me." They were taking tea in the garden, the roses blooming around them.

"Have you seen her? Dickie and I are going tomorrow. Does she look like Mary or Henry?"

"I went the day before yesterday. She looks like any other baby at that age, red and wrinkly." Violet shrugged and sipped her tea. Though she affected nonchalance, she was rather touched at having a namesake.

Isobel frowned at her. "You seem a little down in the mouth. Is something the matter?"

She sighed. It was impossible hide anything from that woman. No, they knew each other too well by now. And in any case, Violet thought it might do her good to reveal the news to somebody.

"I had a letter from Prince Kuragin. The Princess is dead."

"Oh!" Isobel exclaimed. "I'm sorry for him."

"Don't be. He's not sorry for himself," Violet replied dryly. "But he is not well, either … he is not sure how much longer he has. And he wishes me to come to Paris to see him."

Isobel blinked and carefully set down her teacup. "And will you go?"

"I have not decided. It's a long trip for someone of my age."

Since receiving his letter, Violet had been assaulted by a particular memory she'd thought long buried — a chilly sleigh ride through the snow, Igor's lips warming her own, his murmuring "Violet! My dear Violet! I love you, Violet!" Perhaps because Mary had chosen that name for her own daughter, it had resurfaced to pain her. She remembered the heat in her stomach as he'd repeated her name against her throat, her collarbone, her shoulders. When the name came from her husband's lips, it had sounded brittle and harsh. But from Igor, it had been like the finest aria.

"You took my side when I wouldn't marry Dickie, though you delighted in teasing me," Isobel said. "So, I will not pressure you. But only consider this — if he should die, will you regret not seeing him one last time?"

She sighed. It was a question she'd asked herself many times since reading his letter. She thought she might regret it either way. But it was not a discussion Violet wished to delve into too deeply, even with Isobel.

"My dear, people like me do not have regrets. It is so very middle-class." Violet saw Isobel roll her eyes and pour herself more tea. For now, the subject of Prince Kuragin was closed.


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note:** I'm afraid I'm terribly behind in writing, and am going to have to reduce posting to once a week on Fridays until I can catch back up. I'm sorry! :-(

* * *

 **CHAPTER NINETEEN: Ghosts**

 _June 28, 1926_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

"Ducks!" Marigold scampered ahead of Bertie, pointing to several ducks swimming lazily in the pond.

"I'm afraid I don't have anything for them to eat with me, darling," he answered, sitting on a bench that had been built on the bank for viewing pleasure. Marigold ran to him, launching herself on his lap.

This was their last morning at Downton; they were taking the train back to Brancaster after luncheon. Edith was spending some time with Mary and baby Violet, while he elected to take Marigold on one last walk.

"Papa?"

"Hmm? What is it, darling?"

"George says he's going to be a lord," Marigold said, her fingers combing through her doll's hair.

Bertie chuckled. "Did he, now? Yes, that is true. Someday, when George grows up, he will be Lord Grantham."

"George says me and Sybbie won't be ladies." Now, she looked up at him with wide, gray eyes. "Why won't we be ladies, Papa?"

He started, surprised at her question. What an odd subject for children to talk about! But then again, he'd seen that Marigold noticed more than he would have ever imagined. Bertie wasn't sure how to answer, though, and for a few moments, fell silent.

Finally, he said, "George is the heir to your … to Donk. Donk is Lord Grantham, and when George is grown up, he'll take Donk's place as Lord Grantham."

It wasn't the completest explanation, but Bertie hoped it would suffice. Instead, Marigold frowned. "Nanny says Mama's baby will be a lord or a lady."

Bertie sighed and made a mental note to have a talk with Nanny. "Yes, that is true, but to you, he or she will be your brother or sister."

Marigold frowned, seemingly puzzling over his words. "George is a lord and Donk is a lord and you're a lord and Mama is a lady and the baby is a lady," she rattled off. "I want to be a lady, Papa!"

Bertie smiled a little sadly, nestling her close under his arm. He hadn't thought much about Marigold's future — he'd been too preoccupied with estate business, his marriage, their forthcoming new addition. He loved Marigold, and he considered her to be his daughter in nearly every way. But how did one explain the rules of society to a child?

For a moment, he struggled to answer her. She was much too young to learn the harsh realities of the world. There would be time, later, for that.

"Darling, to me, you're more than a lady. You're my little princess," Bertie replied. He stood, holding her in his arms. "Why don't we find some daisies to make a flower crown?"

Marigold giggled and they set off to raid some flowers from Downton's fields.

* * *

June 30, 1926

 _To: Mr. Henry Talbot_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

 _From: Bertie Pelham, Marquess of Hexham_

 _Brancaster Castle, Northumberland_

Henry,

I hope you, Mary, George, and little Violet are all healthy and in good spirits. She will grow up to be quite the beauty, I have no doubt. I have discovered it is no easy thing to be the father of a daughter. I wonder that Lord Grantham ever let either of us near his daughters. If any young man broke Marigold's heart as I did Edith's, I might discover a criminal side to my character.

I am glad to hear business is booming, and I was delighted to see the article in the paper. Robert writes you are getting involved in county matters. Perhaps you have more of your father in you than you knew. I confess readily that I have not paid as much attention to Parliament as I probably ought, but I have never been political.

My wife is very well, and sends her love. She eats like a horse and has an endless amount of energy — you saw what she was like. After the stern talking-to she delivered at Downton, I dare not try to coddle her. She will continue driving. She will continue attending her meetings. She will get the train down to London. She will take daily walks on the estate. I have no say in the matter.

Perhaps Mary was the same. What did we get ourselves into with these Crawley women? That is why I implore your advice on how to stop worrying constantly. Edith is so precious to me. I imagine some frightening scenarios - what if she sprains an ankle too far from the house? What if the car has a flat tire and nobody is there to help her? What if she falls on one of these blasted staircases?

Please, save my sanity.

Your fellow Crawley husband,

Bertie

* * *

 _July 7, 1926_

 _London, England_

Edith stepped through the doorway from Dr. Ryder's office, a pleased and cheerful smile on her face. The doctor had pronounced her the picture of health, and she felt it. This was what pregnancy should be like. Her first one had been dreadful — alone in Switzerland, with only Aunt Rosamund for support, with no idea of what would happen to her baby after birth. But now everything was different. She was married to the dearest man on Earth, and this baby would be welcomed into a warm, loving family.

With a jaunty air, she walked down the steps and onto the sidewalk. Edith briefly thought of hailing a taxi, but it was such a mild day, she thought she might walk through the nearby park. Thus, engrossed in her happy thoughts, Edith did not see the gentleman entering the sidewalk from the next house, and collided with him.

"Oh, dear!" she cried. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't … " Edith trailed off on seeing who she'd bumped into. It was Sir Anthony Strallan.

She gasped, and he turned white. Or even whiter than he had been. Even in her confusion and shock, Edith could see he looked terribly unwell. He was frail, thin, pale — almost wraithlike.

"E-e-edith!" he stammered. For a moment, he just gaped at her. Then, he seemed to recover himself. "Excuse me, I should say, Lady Hexham." Ever the gentleman, Anthony removed his hat.

Edith was speechless. She stared at him, trying to formulate words. She had not seen him since that awful day at the church, when he'd left her standing at the altar, sobbing into her father's arms. He'd written her a short letter, apologizing and informing her that he was leaving Locksley for good to travel abroad. Some months later, the house had been sold to a banker (her father had been livid), and that had been the last she'd heard of her former fiance.

Trying to collect her thoughts, she glanced at the house he'd emerged from — it was a doctor's office. Was Anthony ill? Just as she was about to speak, Anthony beat her to it.

"Lady Hexham, I'm … you look very well. Glowing." His eyes darted down to her slightly rounded belly. "I saw the pictures of your wedding in the papers. My very best wishes to you and your husband."

"Thank you, though I wish you would still call me Edith," she murmured, now daring to look him in the face. "And you? How are you Anthony?"

He hesitated when they were passed by a small group of people. She glanced across the street.

"Would you escort me through the park? I wanted a little fresh air before going home," Edith said.

Anthony inclined his head and looked about to offer his arm, when he thought better of it. They crossed the street and when they were in the relative peace and privacy of the park, she prompted him again.

"We thought you gone from England, for good," Edith said.

"That was my intention after … everything," he replied. "I moved to Italy.* The climate and culture agreed with me, but the political situation there is becoming hazardous, and it didn't seem wise to stay any longer. And … " Here, Anthony paused, looking uneasy. "My health required me to come to London. I've been staying with my sister in Kent."

"You're not well."

He quirked a half-smile at her. "As you see," Anthony said. "I haven't been 'well,' since the war. But lately I find my breath is short and going up the stairs is taxing. I'm afraid my body is wearing out."

Edith stopped and faced him, putting her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Anthony."

He shrugged slightly, looking down at her hand — the wedding ring gleaming on her finger. "The hazards of age. I was old when we … and now I'm older still. But I've had good innings. I had a few lovely years in Italy. Now, I am content to sit in a comfortable chair by the fire and watch my sister's children grow up into fine people." Now, Anthony's hand covered hers, and he stroked the back of it with his thumb. "I only have one regret in life."

She looked away, tears pricking at her eyes.

"But you're happy? No, I can see that you are. I was so tremendously pleased to read about your marriage in all in the papers. A wealthy young marquess, the owner of one of the largest estates in England — it's a brilliant match. You deserve it, Edith. I hope he deserves _you_."

"He does." She peeked at him. She didn't want to wound him, but she thought he should know it all. "I love him."

Anthony bowed his head, but his expression was not one of pain or anguish. He smiled gently at her. That had always been his way. So kind, so selfless. "Seeing you now, like this — it's more proof that I did the right thing all those years ago."

Edith smiled a little sadly in return. Yes, it had been the right thing. How different her life would be if Anthony had stayed at the altar and exchanged vows? She wouldn't have met Michael, or had Marigold. She wouldn't have met Bertie. There was no doubt she would've been content as Lady Strallan, mistress of Locksley and mother to Anthony's children. But she would have never discovered herself, what she could do and what she could bear, or the surprising amount of strength within her. The image of Anthony striding away from her, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces, feeling as though she didn't want to continue living — that had haunted her ever since. Until today. Because she had continued living, she'd put her heart back together, and she'd walked down the aisle with the most wonderful man she'd ever known. Now, she felt the memory could be banished.

Edith reached up to kiss his cheek. "Goodbye, Anthony. I doubt we'll meet again, but I wish you luck."

He squeezed her hand. "Goodbye, Edith. I would wish you joy, but I think you have already found it."

* * *

*His destination of Italy was inspired by a story by Loveedith


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note:** At last! I'm trying to catch up on writing, but it's doubtful I'll return to posting twice a week. But I'm determined to keep going!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY: Lovers**

 _July 10, 1926_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

A smile curled at Daisy's lips as she artfully placed one last crimp in the pie dough. Yes, that looked very pretty, indeed — she had become quite good with the pastries and puddings. And with a filling of strawberries picked from the kitchen gardens, she was sure it would be as delicious as it appeared.

She glanced at the clock — there was plenty of time to run down to the farm to take tea with Dad (as Mr. Mason insisted she call him) and Andy (who was repairing one of the pig pens). She washed her hands, took off her apron, and put on her coat.

"And where are you off to?" The question came from Molly, one of the housemaids, who came into the kitchen giggling with another housemaid, Lydia.

"Down to the farm for tea. Tell Mrs. Patmore for me, will you?" Daisy said, smiling in farewell.

As she walked into the courtyard, though, Daisy remembered a jar of raspberry preserves she'd made for Dad, and after blowing a sigh of frustration, hurried back in. But as she approached the servants hall, she heard her name and slowed her steps.

"Oh, I think so," Molly was saying. "He's over the moon for her, you can tell when he looks at her. He's got those calf eyes."

Both girls giggled, and Daisy blushed, realizing they were talking about her and Andy.

"He is handsome, I wouldn't mind being kissed by him!" Lydia replied, and the housemaids snickered again.

"I suppose they'll get married in the next few months, and she'll probably have a baby underfoot near this time next year," Molly said. "I don't know why she bothered with those exams if all she was going to do was be a farmer's wife. What a waste!"

Daisy nearly gasped, and her mind reeled. She barely heard Lydia's response, as she backed down the hallway and into the courtyard. A farmer's wife? Was that her lot in life?

She began to walk toward the farm, in automatic fashion, as a tumult of thoughts assaulted her. A farmer's wife. The notion shocked her, and yet why should it? She had known all along that Andy wanted to become a farmer. And hadn't she thought about how neat it all was — that her beau could work on the farm that she'd inherit someday?

Daisy felt very stupid. Somehow, it had never quite added up to becoming a farmer's wife. Or popping out babies for the next 10 years or more. She shuddered.

"Daisy!"

She raised her eyes from the path to see Andy striding toward her, waving and grinning cheerfully. Her stomach turned at the sight of him. She felt herself rendered still and mute, so that he had to make up the distance between them.

"I thought you might come down to the farm, but I thought I might catch you at the house," he started to say, then paused as she remained silent. "Is everything alright?"

Daisy shrugged, unable to meet his gaze. "Fine," she mumbled.

He frowned in puzzlement, until she collected herself enough to say, "How was your morning?"

"Good," Andy replied. "The repairs took no time at all. And Mr. Mason and I started planning some improvements to the house. We might need some more space soon, and we were thinking … "

He was cut off, though, when Daisy yanked away her hand, which he'd taken into his, and started walking fast for the house.

"Daisy! What is the matter?" Andy yelled, his long legs helping to catch up to her in a moment. She bit her lip and shook her head, confusion still clouding her mind.

"Tell me what is wrong!" He grabbed her arm and forced her to stop.

Daisy relented, and lifted her chin to meet his eyes. "I don't want to be a farmer's wife."

Andy blinked. "What?"

"I. Don't. Want. To. Be. A. Farmer's. Wife," she repeated slowly and carefully.

He looked baffled, and ran his hand through his hair. "What … why are you … what does that even …."

She raised her eyebrows, and took a deep breath to quell the roiling of her stomach. "I can't marry you, Andy."

Andy blinked again, and took a step back. "I haven't even asked you!" he replied.

"So, you have no intention of marrying me?" She asked, crossing her arms.

He blew out a breath. "I … well, I suppose I do, when the time is right, we haven't been courting for that long, and we're both young, but yes, eventually. But I know the time isn't right now, so I don't know why you're turning down a proposal I haven't even made!"

Andy looked so lost, so wounded, and Daisy felt tears prick at her eyes. She felt so confused herself.

He was clearly waiting for her to explain herself, and Daisy wrung her hands together, trying to find the right words. "I like you, Andy, I really do. So much," she began, the words tripping out of her mouth. "It's just that … I want more than to be someone's wife with a half dozen children, doing laundry and mending all day and cooking nothing more complicated than mutton stew."

Andy ran a hand through his hair and shifted from foot to foot in agitation. "Daisy, there's no rush to marry, for either of us. You're going to be the head cook here someday, or maybe you'll leave and work at a hotel or something. Or maybe you'll go to college!" he said. "I think you have a brilliant future, and I would never get in the way of that."

He paused, and wiped his hand at his eyes. Daisy started — he was crying!

"I'd like to try to make it work, with me at the farm, and you doing whatever you want to do. Because … I love you, Daisy."

Now, the tears in her eyes spilled over. "Do you?" she whispered, moving closer to him, and grasping his arm. "Do you, really?"

"Yes. I do." Andy drew her into an embrace. "You won't ever be just a farmer's wife, even if you marry me. But I hope someday, you will want to marry me, and be _my_ wife. But for now, we can take our time, can't we?"

Daisy reached up to kiss him tenderly. She didn't know what the future held for them. But for the present, standing in his arms was enough.

* * *

 _July 13, 1926_

 _London, England_

Rosamund pulled on her gloves and glanced at her maid in the mirror. "Dawes, I'll be late tonight. No need to stay up to undress me later, I'll manage myself," she said as nonchalantly as she could.

"Yes, milady," Dawes replied, but her expression indicated what she thought of her employer's plans.

Rosamund quelled the nervous fluttering in her stomach. What she was doing was highly improper — scandalous, even. But she didn't care anymore. She was nearly sixty years old, for heaven's sake. She had earned the right to do something scandalous.

As she left the house and took a taxi to the jazz club, Rosamund's jumbled thoughts strayed in a thousand directions. Her marriage to Marmaduke, and his early death. The suitors who pursued her in the years after — either boring to an Olympic degree, or penniless fortune hunters. Nobody suitable had drawn her interest. And nobody had ever ignited a burning desire, like John Archer had.

He was neither boring, nor a fortune hunter, and entirely unsuitable. He didn't want to marry her, or anybody else for that matter. But his breathtaking kisses, the feel of his hands roaming down her back, up her thighs — Rosamund blushed, thankful for the mask of the late hour.

She hadn't had a man in decades. But she wanted John Archer. And tonight, she'd have him. She'd decided this several nights ago, after another evening spent with him in a dark corner, sipping cocktails, listening to the most torching music, and kissing. Endlessly kissing. That night, as his hand crept up her leg, past her stockings, brushing against her garter, Rosamund thought she might expire if he didn't keep going.

But the time hadn't been right. It was too late, her maid was waiting. But tonight …

She arrived at the club and found him smoking a cigarette as he waited. He rose to greet her with a cocktail in hand, which she accepted. But after taking a sip, Rosamund leaned toward him.

"I'm not in the mood for music tonight. What do you say to a drink at your flat?" She murmured in his ear.

John arched a thick eyebrow at her, and a slow grin overspread his face. "Lady Rosamund, how very improper."

"You're a bad influence on me, darling," she replied.

He settled the bill, and they hailed a taxi. The ride was silent, as Rosamund contemplated what she was about to do. They arrived at his flat in Bloomsbury — not too far from Edith's, she thought. Oh, the irony! Once, she had chastised her niece for succumbing to her desires, and here was she was, about to do the same, just blocks away.

John led her up to his apartment, which was a tiny, disorderly place. "I didn't realize I'd have company," he apologized, relocating a stack of books from the sofa to a side table. She sat, and he fixed two glasses of whisky, with a little water for her.

"Cheers," she said, and they clinked their glasses together. John was staring at her, his expression very considering.

"Rosamund, are you sure … " he began, but didn't have the opportunity to finish his sentence, as she fastened her lips onto his. She took both of their glasses and set them on the table, and started undoing his tie.

"I'm sure."

He didn't need another invitation. John rained kisses down her neck, past her collarbone, to the tops of her breasts. His hands stroked her back and bottom, and she could feel the urgency building in her stomach. One of his hands began to creep under the hem of her dress, and move toward the point that she so longed for him to touch. She arched against him.

"Get this dress off me and take me to bed," she whispered.

"As my lady commands."

They made fevered, passionate love. The ecstasy that he induced was unlike anything Rosamund had ever felt before. Not even with Marmaduke. John was a generous lover, clearly practiced, but she didn't care. She only cared about being with him, in this moment. The past didn't matter, and neither did the future.

They lay naked facing each other, John lazily drawing circles on her stomach with his finger. "So, the great Lady Rosamund Painswick has taken a lover," he said with a chuckle.

"It's about damn time," she replied and leaned over to kiss him.


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note: Recent comments have lit a fire under me, so here's a new chapter, at last.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: A Frightful Night**

July 17, 1926

Edith woke up with a start, hot and clammy and uncomfortable. The heat spell that had descended over the county had made even the nights unbearable, and she'd woken up like this several times this week.

With a sigh, she quietly slipped out of bed, so as not to disturb a lightly snoring Bertie, and padded across to the windows to peek outside. A glimpse at the clock on the mantel told her it was three o'clock — she'd been asleep just four hours.

The half moon illuminated the ramparts of Brancaster with a soothing glow. If only this dreadful hot weather would dissipate …

Suddenly, a cramp squeezed at Edith's belly. She grimaced. It wasn't unusual to feel a slight pain now and then; she'd learned that from her first pregnancy.

Another cramp, but this one felt as though it burned her from the inside. And another, but this one was sharp, like a knife, and Edith couldn't stop herself from crying out in pain.

"Edith?" Bertie's sleepy voice floated across the room, which lit up as he turned on the lamp. He gasped when he saw her, one arm hugging her belly, the other hand gripping a chair. She knew her face must be white as a sheet, and again, she couldn't stop herself from groaning when another cramp rippled through her.

"Edith!" Bertie was out of bed and by her side in a second, his strong arms, supporting her as her knees buckled.

"I'm fine!" She panted. "It's just … it's normal … it's …" but another cramp seized her, and Edith whimpered. His face turned ashen.

Bertie swooped her into his arms and carried her to bed, then violently tugged at the cord to ring the servants. "I'll have Mallon call the doctor."

"Nobody's there to hear the bell, darling. It's the middle of the night."

Bertie took a shuddering breath. "I'll go wake everyone myself. I'll wake Mother, I'll call the doctor," he said, his voice trembling. He was still holding her hand in a vice-like grip.

"Bertie, I'm sure it's nothing … indigestion, perhaps," Edith said, trying to sound as soothing as possible, but another pain shot through her and her face screwed up in pain.

Bertie shot through the door, banging it open, and she could hear his feet pounding down the hallway. She heard the faint echo of his shouting through the gallery: "Mother! Mother! Mallon! Anybody!"

Edith closed her eyes and nestled into the pillows, trying to achieve a position of some comfort. The cramps were perfectly normal … weren't they? They'd eaten a particularly rich lobster dish earlier … perhaps it was indigestion, as she'd told him. But what if it wasn't? Edith stroked her belly, as the first glimmerings of worry began to gnaw at her.

Presently, she heard Bertie's voice again, still shouting. She heard quite a few footsteps approaching the open door. Mother Margaret came in, wearing her housecoat and cap, and looking more perturbed than troubled. She was followed by her maid, Harris, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Turner, who both had not had the time to dress, as Bertie had clearly dragged them from their beds.

"My dear, how are you feeling?" Mother asked, coming over to her.

"I'm fine. I think I just have indigestion," Edith replied softly. "But … I am not sure. Perhaps it is something to be concerned about." She looked worriedly at her mother-in-law. "What if I am having … "

She couldn't bring herself to say the word "miscarriage." The thought of it made tears prick at her eyes. Of course, Edith wasn't as young as she used to be. Just because Marigold's birth had gone smoothly did not mean this one would.

"I am sure it is nothing," Mother said, in a soothing tone quite unlike her. "Everything will be alright."

Bertie breathlessly entered the room. "The doctor is coming," Bertie said, running a hand through his haphazard hair. "I told him to come as if his life depends on it, and it just might."

Mrs. Turner spoke up. "We'll get you some tea, my lady, and a cup of warm milk. A hot water bottle may help with the discomfort, as well." She and Jessie departed to fetch the items.

Bertie began to pace in front of the dormant fireplace, his hands clasp behind his back. "He'd better drive like the devil," he muttered. "After all we've done for that backwater hospital … Perhaps I should have Mallon light the torches on the drive, so he can see better. Mrs. Turner should prepare a room for him in case he needs to stay the night."

He continued to ramble in this fashion, hardly even looking at her. Why wasn't he looking at her? Why wasn't he sitting with her, holding her hand? Edith wondered if he couldn't bear the thought of her losing the baby. Would he blame her somehow? Would he regret not marrying someone younger and fresher, who'd never given birth before? And if she did lose this baby, what then? Would that embitter him towards her, towards Marigold?

She knew she wasn't being quite rational, but all her worry coalesced into a storm of doubt, even as the pains continued, though they were a little duller now.

Mother must have noticed her unease, because she took Bertie's arm. "Let's wait in the gallery for the doctor. Edith needs quiet and rest."

Bertie mutely nodded, and without even glancing at Edith, followed his mother out the door. That he'd essentially ignored her in this trying hour made Edith's tears finally spill over her cheeks.

* * *

"How long has it been?" Bertie growled, glancing at the clock in the gallery. "It can't take more than twenty minutes to drive here. What is taking him so long!"

"It's only been fifteen minutes, Bertie," his mother pointed out.

He paced across the carpet, hardly seeing the ornate design on the plush fabric. Nor did he register the gilded paintings and marble figurines. In his mind's eye, all he saw was Edith's face when he first woke up — and all he heard was her cry of pain.

This was all his fault, though he couldn't talk to his mother about it. He'd made love to Edith earlier that evening, after they'd gone up from dinner. She'd assured him that it was perfectly alright to do so, through her pregnancy, but he should have controlled himself. But no — he'd indulged his baser desires, and no doubt, endangered their child.

"It's my fault," he whispered to himself, and his mother looked at him quizzically, but before she could ask, he continued, more loudly, "Where is that infernal doctor?"

"Your constant questioning, and this pacing, won't bring him here any faster," she replied dryly.

"I should've hired a nurse to live here. We're too far away from everything, everyone. Edith would want her mother here … MALLON!"

"Yes, my lord?" The butler materialized before Bertie even finished shouting his name. Somehow, he'd found the time to dress properly.

"Call Downton Abbey and inform Lord Grantham about the emergency, and ask if Lady Grantham might come up on the first train in the morning. And find a number for a doctor in Newcastle. The best doctor. Call him and tell him to start straightaway for Brancaster. I'll pay whatever it takes."

"Is that necessary, Bertie?" His mother asked, her eyes wide.

"Dr. Morris is fine enough, but I'll want a second opinion. And I'll want someone with better credentials should … should the worst come to pass." At this, Bertie's voice broke, and the image of Edith swam before him again, and now, tears filled his eyes and he fell to his knees. Oh God, Edith … their baby … what if …

Suddenly, his mother's hand struck him across the cheek, causing his vision to swim. "Bertie. Get a hold of yourself," she commanded. "You are thirty five years old. You have served in His Majesty's army. You led soldiers in the war and were decorated for it. Yet, here you are, snivelling like a child. Act like the man that your wife and your children need you to be."

Bertie blinked in surprise, as his mother loomed over him, her arms crossed, and a forbidding expression on her face. She'd looked just like that many times in his youth, when he'd misbehaved. She hadn't struck him since he was a child.

As he slowly rose to his feet, he heard shouting from outside the door. The doctor had arrived.

* * *

"She's going to be alright?" Bertie stared down Dr. Morris, who nodded emphatically.

"Yes, Lady Hexham is in good health, and so is the babe."

"What was the matter?"

The doctor hesitated for a moment, but Bertie indicated with a roll of his hand to continue. "Her body is adjusting to carrying a child. The ligaments are stretching to make room for the growing babe, and that can cause some pain. There was no bleeding, so these were not early contractions."

Bertie breathed a sigh of relief. "So, she will not miscarry?"

"No." Dr. Morris gave him a reassuring smile.

"And it wasn't anything else that caused it? It was just these ligaments stretching?"

"I believe so, though Lady Hexham may have also experienced a touch of indigestion. I've suggested that she cut down on rich foods. I've also prescribed some exercises that may relieve the cramps." The doctor looked at him curiously. "Forgive me, sir, but are you worried about something else?"

Bertie reddened. He was embarrassed, but he must know. "I wondered if it might be my fault," he said in a low voice. "You see, earlier … I … that is, Edith and I, we …." Bertie trailed off, then added in a near whisper, "Engaged in marital activities."

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "I see. Lord Hexham, I can tell you that your 'marital activities' had absolutely nothing to do with your wife's discomfort."

He sighed in relief. "Ah, good, thank you, doctor. Thank you. And I do apologize for my manner on the telephone and when you arrived. I was very upset. Please, forgive me."

"Yes, of course," Dr. Morris replied, waving his words away. "I will say goodnight. But before I go, I should note that Lady Hexham is extremely agitated. Something is troubling her beyond the pains. She would not reveal what it was, but it's preying on her mind."

Bertie frowned. "I will speak to her, thank you."

With that, they bid each other farewell, and Bertie re-entered their bedroom. Edith was propped up against the pillows, eating an ice cream of all things.

"It's too hot for tea or warm milk," she explained, setting the dish down.

He came to sit next to her. "Oh, my darling, I have never felt so relieved in my life when Dr. Morris said you were alright." Bertie stroked her cheek, and was alarmed when he saw tears leak out of the corners of her eyes.

"I'm so glad," she said, in a wavering voice. "I thank God I didn't lose the baby, or make you angry with me."

He sat back in surprise. "Angry with you? Why on Earth would I be angry with you?"

"I was worried that if I lost the baby, it'd mean I couldn't have anymore children. And I know how much you want your own, and how much you need an heir." She gulped and wouldn't meet his gaze. "I thought maybe … that I was damaged goods, and you'd regret marrying me."

Bertie's heart nearly broke at her words. "My dearest, darling Edith, I couldn't regret marrying you if you hit me in the head with a brick." When she laughed a little, he gathered her in his arms, pressing his lips to her forehead.

"You were so cold earlier. You wouldn't even look at me. I thought … I thought you blamed me."

He sighed. "No, I was blaming myself." Now, he held her at arm's length to look at her, to force her to see the sincerity in his eyes. "I thought that I'd caused it by making love to you."

A chuckled bubbled from Edith's lips. "What! Darling, how ridiculous!"

"Yes, well, in the moment, I couldn't help but think I was a terrible boor." Bertie shrugged, then embraced her again. "I am sorry, Edith, that my behavior made you feel at fault. I am so terribly sorry."

They held each other for some long, silent minutes, taking comfort in each other's arms until a knock came at the door. It was Bertie's mother.

"I'm back to bed," she informed them. "I've told the servants to sleep in, if that's alright. And I've asked Mr. Mallon to call that Newcastle doctor to cancel. But you should probably ring Downton Abbey yourself, Bertie."

Edith turned round eyes on him. "You called my parents?"

Bertie grimaced. "Your father won't be happy to be roused for a second time in the middle of the night, if he managed to get back to sleep after the scare I likely drummed up," he admitted. "I'll call them in a moment, Mother."

She came over to press Edith's hand and her son's shoulder. "I am sorry, Bertie, for earlier, but I did what I felt had to be done."

He nodded at her. "It's alright, Mother. I am grateful. You were right."

A wintry little smile touched her lips. "I usually am." And she departed.

Bertie rolled his eyes, and turned to see Edith looking confused. "What did she do?"

He laughed, and laid down on the bed so that their bodies fit together like spoons. "I'll tell you in the morning. For now, let me just hold you." His hands curled over her belly. "Both of you."

* * *

July 21, 1926

 _To: Lady Mary Talbot_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

 _To: Lady Mary Talbot_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

 _From: Edith Pelham, Marchioness of Hexham_

 _Brancaster Castle, Northumberland_

Dear Mary,

Thank you for your kind letter. All is well, as Bertie told Papa on the telephone. Our doctor said that nothing was the matter, but I feel one odd twinge and that mad man I call husband sounds the alarm! I thought they might have heard his shouting down in the village. The poor servants were torn from their beds, for no reason at all. Even Mother M. was exasperated, and told Bertie he must take hold of himself. Was Henry like this? I can't imagine him being anything other than cool as a cucumber.

How is little Violet? I still think the name sounds rather nice, Violet Talbot has a pleasing staccato sound. It has to be spoken just so, and that seems right for a daughter of yours.

As for her namesake, I had a nice long letter from Granny, and owe her a response. But she seems rather down. She still feels the loss of Isobel's company, I think, in addition to losing her preeminence at the hospital. I do wish she would come to Brancaster, but she says it is too hard at her age. I ought to tell her to find something to do, as she once admonished me.

Bertie tells me Tom has gone down to London again. I hope you are not too displeased. You like Laura, or so you've said. I know you would miss him, but you can carry along very well as agent on your own. And Henry seems to be taking more of an interest, and should be some help. It is long past time that Tom got his own life. Let us be happy for him if this is what he wants.

We have had an overwhelming number of engagements this summer. Bertie hates it, of course, but it will do him good if he decides to be active in the House of Lords. Even if he doesn't, though I don't see how he can get around it entirely, it is better for Brancaster's future if we are on good terms with the neighbors.

We are looking forward to having you all here for a proper house party, and to celebrate your anniversary. A band is coming up from London — Bertie thought it should be a surprise, but I know you hate surprises. I have invited Laura and the Allens, as well as Charles Blake and Evelyn Napier, and their wives, but Tony and Mabel had to send their regrets, as it is too close to her delivery date. Marigold cannot wait to see George and Sybbie again.

Your sister,

Edith


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Note:** I promise, I haven't given up on the story. It's just slow-going. Thanks for your patience and kind encouragement!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: In Memoriam**

 _July 25, 1926_

 _Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

Robert strolled at a brisk pace down the lane toward his home, Tiaa skittering at his feet. His mind was mulling over the progress of the development at Pip's Corner, which had been delayed some months ago when they had engaged a new building company to take over the project. It had not been his choice, but Tom's, who hadn't been satisfied with the quality of work.

Seeing the work done so far, by the new builders, Robert had easily seen the improvements. The houses would be complete by autumn, and at last, they might begin to recoup their investment.

Mary had allowed him to take on oversight of the building — he grimaced at that. _Allowed_. By his own _daughter_! It still rankled him, that she had taken such a firm hold of the management of the estate. She _allowed_ him some projects, nothing too onerous, "because we don't want you spewing blood all over the china again, Papa."

Again, he was feeling adrift. The commission on land development had concluded and given over its reports. He'd given some half-hearted thought on more active political involvement, but there was no point — it was too late. He had little influence, and no experience in the minute maneuvers required of career politicians like his cousin, Shrimpie.

No, he needed something else to do. As Robert turned the bend, he saw a familiar figure walking toward him. Another man who could use more to do — Carson. The butler removed his hat in greeting him.

"How are you, Carson? We hardly ever see you at Downton," Robert said, as the two men stopped to talk. "You must come up and say hello more often."

"Thank you, my lord, but I do not think Mr. Barrow would enjoy that."

Robert shrugged. "And how are things getting along at the hotel? I've heard you've been offered jobs in London."

"That is true, my lord, but Mrs. Carson and I would not like to leave Yorkshire," Carson replied, with a small smile for his wife. "This is our home. Even if it has changed so much since I first came here as a footman."

Robert nodded, and gazed off into the distance, at the top of the tower rising above the trees, the Grantham flag rippling in the breeze. "We must change with the times, Carson, as much as it pains me to say it, or we'll be left in the dust with all the other artifacts."

Carson breathed deeply. "Indeed, my lord. But sometimes I think that the changes are happening so rapidly, that we'll lose all sense of what we once had. The road to the future was paved in the past."

Robert blinked. Such eloquence from his butler! "Well said, Carson."

"'Tis a pity, teaching these young people, how little they know of what came before. I try to teach them as much as I can, but soon enough, my generation will be gone, and it will all be lost."

An idea struck Robert, then. Perhaps it was foolhardy, and rather insipid but … "I say, Carson, what if it was all written down? How things were done, the stories of glittering balls and grand dinners — here, at Downton."

The butler looked bemused. "Written down? A history, of sorts, my lord?"

"Yes, exactly!" Now, Robert was growing excited. Here, perhaps, was a chance to create a legacy, beyond his children. "A history of Downton — upstairs and downstairs. We could write it together, Carson."

Carson's eyebrows rose high on his forehead. "My lord, I am flattered, but I don't feel worthy of …"

"Oh, pish posh, Carson. You know the house and its history as well as any of the family. Better, likely than my daughters. And you can write from a point of view that I could not. Think of the gift we'll give to these young people, and future generations. We'll be giving them a glimpse into a world long gone. Say you'll do this with me, Carson."

A slow smile spread over the butler's creased face, and Robert knew he had him.

* * *

After checking on a sleeping Violet, Mary entered the bedroom to find her husband, looking pensive, with a glass of whiskey in his hand, a book open but forgotten on his lap. He'd been quiet at dinner as her father had extolled his new idea of writing a history of Downton. She thought it was a silly project, but she supposed it would give him something to do.

"Darling, are you alright?" she asked, taking off her robe and slipping into bed beside him.

Henry quirked a half smile at her. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to brood. Now, come here and kiss me."

Whatever it was, Mary quite forgot about it, until the next day, when Henry decided to take a walk instead of joining the children for tea. She watched his figure in the distance, ambling on the lawn, with seemingly no direction. She frowned, and Tom noticed.

"Something is the matter with Henry," she said. "Do you know what it is? Is it the business?"

Tom shook his head. "No, business is very good. I think I might have an idea what it might be. I read in today's paper about the British Grand Prix at Brooklands. It's an important race, and it's taking place in a few weeks."

Mary frowned again. She'd wondered if her husband would ever feel the desire to race again. He'd made the decision to quit out of grief for Charlie Rogers and love for her. But now, a year later, was he regretting giving it up?

That evening, in their bedroom, after she'd dismissed Anna, Mary turned to face Henry, who was attempting to read his book, though failing.

"Darling, I think I know why you're brooding. Is it this Grand Prix race that Tom told me about?" she asked. He looked up, startled, and she moved to sit on the edge of his side of the bed. "Do you want to drive again? If you do, I'll … I'll chin up and support you. It'll be hard, and I'll be afraid for you every moment, but I love you and I want you to do what you want."

Henry sighed and put his book on the bedside table. He took both her hands in his. "I am brooding about the race, darling, but not in the way you think," Henry said. He appeared to struggle for words for a moment, before continuing. "The thing is … I don't want to race in it, or anywhere else, anymore. But I am frustrated not to have a car in it."

"A car in it?"

"Yes, I'd hoped to build special cars to enter in races. It would be beneficial to our business — get our names out there. I know it was wishful thinking to hope we might have something ready this year. I suppose I also wanted to enter a car to honor Charlie. He died a year ago. It's hard to believe." Henry's expression grew mournful.

Mary's heart constricted at the memory of that awful day. She tenderly caressed her husband's cheek. "You have time. You can do it later this year, or next."

"I know. It's not entirely rational. I know I have nothing to mope about. I have a wonderful wife, two darling children, and a booming business. But I just wish I could do something special to mark his passing."

Mary pursed her lips in thought. She hated to see Henry so downcast. He was rarely in a bad mood — always happy and joking and lively. He brought such cheer to the house and to her life.

"Well, I've never been one to just mope about, so I won't let you do it, either," she declared. "There must be something we can do."

"Like what?"

"There must be a trophy or dish or something for the winner. Let's donate toward the purse, and have it be the Charlie Rogers memorial trophy. You can get anything done with a little money."

Henry's expression instantly lightened. "I say, that's rather a good idea. What a splendid thing that would be — a memorial trophy!"

"Thank you. I try." Mary smiled and he drew her closer.

"My brilliant wife," Henry murmured. "I owe you a kiss for that."

"Just a kiss? I think I deserve a little better than that."


End file.
